Earth Angel
by Tanicus
Summary: The valley of the shadow of death stretches from boofoo Afghanistan to smalltown USA, and washed-out Air Force veteran Beatrice Lynch is dead set on being the meanest motherfucker in the valley.
1. Genesis

Plumes of black smoke spiraled endlessly upward to choke out the pale, cloudless blue sky. Though visible only for brief flickering moments, the blinding sun cast down its heat upon the burning sands below. Gusts of wind carried the smoke and dust to a distant sand dune, where there stood four black figures overlooking the hellish landscape before them. There they saw their prize, the smoldering wreckage of an F-16. Exchanging curt nods, they crept swiftly over the edge and sprinted like wild dogs to a carcass.

The wooden stock of a Kalashnikov made quick work of the cracked windshield, and long knives cut away the bindings which held the pilot's limp body rigid and upright in the seat. The body was lifted out and carried away over the desert. The pale blue sky and its flickering sun reflected in the visor of the pilot's helmet until the winds ceased, and the unhindered smoke rose up to snuff out the light.

Some hours later the light returned in the form of a single dim incandescent bulb hanging from the ceiling. The pilot sat unmoving on the dusty floor of a cell, back against the wall.

The pilot's body began to shudder with coughs and wheezes. Behind the dark visor, reddened eyes cracked open to find two blurry figures sitting on the floor on the other side of the bars watching with morbid fascination. They passed a pipe between each other, taking turns blowing the second-hand opium smoke into the tube of the pilot's disconnected oxygen mask.

"What… do you little punks… think yer doin…" she slurred.

The guardsmen dropped the pipe and rose to their feet, stumbling backwards and shouting things in a language she couldn't understand.

The pilot stood up, bracing herself against the wall. She towered above them. One of the guards pointed wildly at their prisoner while shaking his comrade's shoulder. _"Al-Uzza! Al-Uzza! Alshaytan al'amrikiu!"_ he shouted over and over again.

The other guard nodded. _"Almawt lilkifaar!"_ he barked, unsheathing the machete from his belt.

_"Almawt lilkifaar!"_ returned the other, storming forward to unlock the cell. Flinging open the door, he tugged the pilot by the arm. With some resistance, she stumbled out, head spinning. Through the slurred Arabic shrieking and the smoke filling the room, her eyes caught the flash of the guardsman's blade raised in the air. Sobered by instinct, the pilot swung with her right fist and clocked him in the side of his head. She received a swift kick to the back of her knee and dropped to the floor, kneeling before the executioner holding his face. He stepped forward and yanked off the pilot's helmet. Her bun came loose, sending cascades of red hair spilling down around her head.

The man with the knife grabbed a handful of her hair and tugged her head down towards the floor, exposing her neck. The pilot gripped his wrist. He laughed at the futile effort as he raised his blade.

His laughter turned to a scream as she rammed the palm of her free hand into his elbow, snapping the bones and ripping the tendons. The machete clattered to the ground and she snatched it up, swinging at his legs and cleaving one of his shins in two. Blood sprayed in her face and he fell backward.

The pilot scrambled to her feet, grimacing at the weight put on her bad knee. She turned her head to see the other guardsman fumbling with the AK-47 strapped to his back.

She hobbled towards him, hate burning through the blood on her face.

_"Allah yukhlusuni"_ were his last words before the blade slashed through his neck.

Standing there in the middle of the dimly lit room was the victor, soaked in carnage, only barely knowing where she was or what had just happened. She wiped the blood off of her face with the sleeve of her flight suit, and when she opened her eyes again she saw her helmet on the floor. As she placed it on her head, she glanced downward and noticed the opium paraphernalia.

She kicked open the door to the next room, thoroughly stoned and brandishing the AK-47 she looted from the beheaded guard's body. Half a dozen soldiers all looked up at once from where they were seated atop their cots in the cramped barracks. They stood, yelling and storming towards the intruder and pulling their guns and knives. The pilot pulled the trigger and let forth a spray of bullets, and her foes dropped to the dusty floor.

Gunsmoke drifted around the pilot's helmeted head, and a pool of blood creeped forward to lap at her combat boots. She tossed aside her weapon's spent magazine, stepping through the gore and kneeling to take a full one from a fallen enemy's gun, still clenched in a twitching hand. She loaded the magazine and pulled back the bolt.

Just then, a bullet whizzed past her head. She dropped to the bloodied floor. The door to the barracks exploded in a spray of splinters as more bullets came, punching through the wood and ricocheting off the brick walls. Just next to her, at the foot of a bunkbed, was a footlocker. Frantic, she tossed open the lid and dug around inside. Her shaking hand pulled out a grenade.

Fast breaths huffed through her oxygen mask, and the pounding of her heart echoed inside her helmet.

She pulled the pin and tossed the grenade through the hole in the door.

The shooting stopped and she heard a terrified voice utter a few words before the door was blasted away and a spray of viscera came with it. Throwing herself to her feet, the pilot ran out of the room, trampling over bodies and their detached parts as she sprinted down the spiraling hallway, painted red from floor to ceiling. A door swung open and a dark figure with a gun stepped out in front of her. Point blank, the pilot sprayed bullets into his guts before shoving him away. Crumpled up against the wall, bleeding out, he turned his head slowly to stare at her.

From behind, a knife slashed through her coarse Nomex flight suit. Only on a subconscious level did she realize the blade carved downward from her shoulder blade through the flesh of her back. Stumbling forward, she turned to see her attacker take another swing at her. She reached out and caught his arm, the blade stopping inches from her neck. With wild eyes, she looked into his inhuman face, shrouded in black.

Dropping the gun, she snatched him by the throat. The knife slipped from his quivering fingers as he moved to grasp at the large hand squeezing his airway shut. Then the pilot reeled back and slammed her helmeted head against his cranium. A few rasping words slipped out of his mouth, maybe a prayer, maybe a curse, and the pilot struck him again. And again. And again. Blood burbled from his mouth and streamed out of his nose and sprayed against her visor. The dull thumps turned quickly into cracks and crunches and then wetness. She stopped when her visor was red and she could no longer see what she had done. His neck slipped from her hand and he dropped to the floor like refuse.

Bright light shone through the doorway in front of her. Stepping out, she felt the sunshine pouring over her, her boots sinking lightly into the hot, crunching sands. She was standing at the foot of a huge mountain. In the distance was a faint wisp of black smoke.

Reaching into her flight suit, she pulled out the opium pipe and lighter and took another hit. Red hell dripped into her face and ran down her neck. The cut in her back seared, the crusting blood still a touch wet against her skin. She had never felt anything more beautiful in her life.

Freedom.

* * *

"After that, I spent the next few days living in the mountains. The U.S. army patrol found me covered in animal skins, red all over. Said I was carrying a big stick and shouting gibberish at them. Barely recognized me as one of their own; woulda shot me if it weren't for my name patch. Woke up a bit later in a hospital back home."

"Wow," said Wirt. He rapped his pen against his notebook, clearing his throat. "So, um, how do you… feel about all that?"

"Cut the crap, Wirt," Beatrice said, leaning back in the couch and kicking her legs up. "We both know you're not here to be my therapist, you just want ideas for your writing."

"Uhh… Two birds one stone, right?"

"Hah. So much for patient confidentiality."

He subtly flipped the notebook to a different page. "But no, uh, seriously, tell me how you feel."

"Oh boy, where to begin…" Beatrice dug into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a pack of smokes and a lighter. She held the pack out to Wirt.

"Beatrice, this is my office."

"Oh, gotcha." She removed a cigarette, placed it in her mouth, lit it, and returned the items to her pocket.

Wirt sighed. "Your _feelings_?"

She exhaled a cloud of smoke and tapped the ashes into the shag carpet. "I was _gettin'_ to it, be patient! You want me to be honest?"

"Kind of, yeah."

"Well, to be _honest_," she said, taking another drag of her cigarette, "To be honest, I wish I were back there sometimes."

Wirt began to write something down, then stopped and looked up. "You wish you were back in Afghanistan?"

"No, Afghanistan sucked. I mean, I wish I was back in… the heat of the moment, y'know?"

"Not really."

"You wouldn't. No one would." She sat back, laced hands resting atop the slight beer gut that strained against her tight, stained white t-shirt. Her cigarette hung loosely from her lips as she stared up at the white stucco ceiling. "I thought I was gonna die, man. I shoulda died as soon as I crashed. Ever since I was a kid I thought I was gonna die young, and then I just… didn't. But I really should have."

Wirt was scribbling furiously in the notebook. "Why did you think that?"

"I was always getting into some sort of trouble when I was a kid. When you've got a family like mine, you gotta get your kicks somehow," She dropped her cigarette butt to the floor, ground it into the carpet – Wirt clenched his jaw for a fraction of a second – and busied herself with lighting another one. "Fighting, drinking, arson, cruelty to woodland creatures…"

_"And bedwetting?"_ Wirt thought to himself.

She didn't notice the edges of his lips tugging upward against his will. "So naturally, I never thought I'd have a very long lifespan."

He covered his mouth with his fist and cleared his throat. "Did you join the military because you thought you'd accelerate that?"

She rested her chin on her fist for a moment. "No. At least not on a conscious level. Mainly just wanted to get as far away from my folks as possible. Didn't know what else to do with my life, college was obviously out of the question. It just felt like the only option."

Wirt closed the notebook, took off his glasses, and set them both aside. He tucked his pen back into his shirt pocket. He sat with his knees pressed together and his hands balled up in his lap. "I think," he began, breathing deeply, "you weren't as ready to accept your death as you thought you were."

"Yeah?" she said, lifting an eyebrow.

He smiled a little at her. "Well, for starters, becoming a fighter pilot isn't a spur of the moment decision. And you didn't just _give up_ when you were abducted by those terrorists in Afghanistan, you had a fighting spirit. You proved yourself wrong because you wanted to."

"Also because I didn't want to get my head lopped off."

"That too. But my point is," he stood up, pacing a bit. "Is it possible you _knew_, deep down, that you were meant for more than just getting your head lopped off in the desert?"

She sat quietly, rolling her cigarette back and forth between her fingers. "When I stepped outside, I guess that's what I was feelin'. But I always just thought it was because I was high."

"No, that's actually a normal feeling, Beatrice."

"Incredible." She leaned back against the couch, folding her arms, drumming her fingers against her hard, tattooed bicep. "So I guess this is my grand purpose I was fighting for? To be a good-for-nothing deadbeat bu-"

Wirt's watch started to beep. "Oh, crap. I-I'm sorry Beatrice, but this'll have to be the end of our session." He was scrambling around, tripping over his own feet, scooping up his belongings in his scrawny arms. "This is so unprofessional, but I really need to get home on time tonight."

"Girlfriend still givin' ya trouble?"

"I-" he stopped and took a deep breath, straightening his shoulders. He slipped his notebook and travel mug into his bag. "N-no, everything… everything's fine. She's good. We're good." He offered her his hand and she took it, nearly pulling him to the floor as she stood up from the couch. "Have a good evening, Beatrice. I'll see you this time next week. I-I'll make it up to you, I promise. And in the meantime, keep thinking about your, um… purpose."

"Yeah, yeah. Don't worry about it. Thanks, Shrink," she said, flicking another cigarette butt to the floor and heading out of the office.

Wirt stood there for a moment, with his disheveled hair and wrinkled shirt, and watched her walk down the hallway, her form strong and solid, her long, swaying red hair shining in the green fluorescent light.

* * *

Wirt drove down the empty streets that evening, stereo playing a Smiths song at a casually low volume. He could hear the tires against the pavement. He reflected on his solitude, his entrapment in an indifferent world; how he longed for a moment of contentment and peace, how he hoped he had gotten Sara's usual order right. He grimaced as he hit a pothole and the bag of takeout slid off the passenger's seat and fell to the floor.

He sighed. At least he tried to do a nice gesture.

Eyes lidded, he scratched at the stubble on his jaw as he tried once more to stop thinking. He needed to shave. He would do that as soon as he got home. Sara liked it when he was smooth. He exhaled warmly, the smallest smile settling on his tired face.

Turning into the parking lot of the apartment complex, he found his spot and sat back against the seat for just a moment, sighing.

_Love, peace and harmony are very nice, but maybe in the next world_, indeed.

Shutting off the car, he grabbed the bag of takeout from the floor and headed toward the steps of the building. Once inside, he headed up two more flights of stairs before finally reaching the apartment he and Sara shared. Knees aching, he fished around in his pocket for his key. He wrestled the key into the lock and the heavy door creaked open to reveal the same drab, mostly empty, largely unnoteworthy apartment as always. He stared at the spot on the wall above the couch where he imagined would be the perfect spot for a framed painting. Some kind of forest scene, with a waterfall in the background and a humble mill perched beside the river. This same thought entered his mind at around the same time every day and left as soon as he stepped inside.

He stepped inside. Oddly enough, he was still thinking about that painting.

Leaving the warm, heavy plastic bag on the kitchen table, he walked down the hall, entered the bathroom, and flicked on the light. His gaze lingered on his reflection as he reached for his dull old disposable razor. Turning on the faucet, he ran the blade under the water and splashed some in his face. In a few quick swipes, his sparse patches of whiskers vanished. Small dots of blood rose up here and there. Good enough, he thought.

Stepping back into the main room of the apartment, he glanced at his watch. It was getting late. Sara should've been home by now. He pulled his cellphone from his pocket and gave her a call. Pacing, he listened to the ringing tone repeat several times. The call was just about to go to voicemail when his girlfriend picked up.

"Yeah, baby? What's up? I'm really busy right now."

"Sorry, didn't mean to bother you, but, uh…"

"Yeah..?"

"It's past 6:30, are you gonna be home soon?"

He could hear her sigh into the phone. "I'm sorry babe, but they're having us all work overtime tonight. No one will tell me what's going on, but it seems important."

Wirt dragged a hand down his face, rubbing away his scabs and smearing tiny trails of blood over his irritated skin. "Alright. Alright. Your job is important. Okay. Do you know when you'll be home?"

"As soon as I can. Hang tight, okay? I miss you."

"Okay. Miss you too."

"B-"

"Bye." Wirt hung up and gripped his phone tight enough to hurt his fingers to stop himself from throwing it. Typical! Here he was, going out of his way to show his girlfriend he cared, how he was ready to patch up their issues and move on, and she couldn't be bothered to come home. She had to work _overtime_. Sure, like Wirt was supposed to believe that. Right now, she was probably… She was probably…

"Oh, God." Wirt desperately wished to stop thinking. Slumping over to the kitchen table, he pulled out a chair and dropped himself down in it, propping up his elbows and resting his face in his hands. Overtime. _Overtime_.

She hated him, and for what? Having dreams? Being in crippling student loan debt? Having the gall to suggest hanging up a picture in this God-forsaken off-white purgatory?

He leaned back in the stiff wooden chair and his eyes rolled over to stare at the takeout. He was too upset to be hungry, but there was a lot of perfectly good food just sitting there getting cold.

He stood up and snatched the bag. If Sara was too good to appreciate his nice gesture, then he would find someone else who did.

As he left, he slammed the door. He imagined the framed painting falling to the floor. With his head down, his free hand balled up in his pocket, and his knees aching, he started down the stairs of the quiet apartment building.

* * *

The water was getting cold. She felt very warm.

Basking in the desert sun, bliss tanned her pale skin and ran hot through her veins. Sweet, sticky blood washed over her, dripping from every inch of her, filling her nose with the scent of being alive. There was no pain; her bad knee was bad no more, a gentle finger ran up and down the faded scar on her back. Her heart was an animal skin drum that God lazily thumped to a slow rhythm. There was sand under her bare feet and the horizon was nothing but free, open blue sky for miles.

It was a disintegrating memory of the most beautiful thing she had ever felt, delivered through a collapsing vein.

She was feeling pretty good. Not quite as good as the day before, and last week was out of the question, but at this moment, everything was almost okay. A plume of black smoke rose up in the horizon of her mind's eye as a knock at the door roused her.

She sat up too quickly in the grimy tub and groaned as her back creaked. The knocking came again. It was a quick, shaky rapping, almost too quiet to hear. But it was there nevertheless, and she knew _he_ was there too. Always at the worst times, he was there. Growling under her breath, she hoisted herself out of the watery embrace.

Wirt was about to knock again when the door opened a crack. Looking up, he saw a bloodshot green eye staring down at him from beneath a bushy copper brow. "Can I come in?" he asked, holding up the bag of food as an offering. She gave a low _humm_ as she undid the chain lock and beckoned him inside. His gaze lingered on her extended arm; a scattered line of blackish-purple bruises ran from her wrist down under the loose sleeve of her threadbare blue flannel robe. Shuddering, he looked down and stepped inside Beatrice's apartment. She pulled the door shut and latched it behind him.

They sat on the cigarette-burned couch and ate their Chinese food as the chunky little analog TV droned on the other side of the room. Beatrice had hoisted the thing out of her bedroom and plugged it in there for him, either because she knew he needed a distraction or because she didn't want to talk to him. He pretended it was the former.

Beatrice ate much faster than he and tossed the empty Styrofoam box and plastic fork to the side, where it joined several other empty, rotting Styrofoam and cardboard boxes. She reached her fingers under the flap of her robe and scratched at her stomach. "So," she said, snapping Wirt out a daze he didn't know he was in. He coughed on a half-chewed mouthful of noodles. She smirked at him. "Any particular reason you came by this neck of the woods?"

He set the cold food he had been picking at aside. "I'm… not happy."

"Kinda figured. Don't gotta be a therapist to figure that one out."

"Sara didn't come home tonight."

"I was in the Air Force, not the FBI, bud. I respect the false sense of faith you've placed in me, don't get me wrong, but missing persons ain't really something I-"

"What? No, I mean she's working late tonight. Or, she _said_ she's working late, supposedly. I mean, we barely get to see each other as it is, it's like she's avoiding me. And yet she says _I'm_ the one who won't communicate…"

Beatrice snorted. "Women, right?"

"…And right now, she's probably not even _at_ work, she's probably out hanging around with… With…"

"Wirt, remember what I told you about the J word."

"_Jason Funderberker_," he hissed through his teeth, his small fists clenched in his lap. His jaw tightened and a little vein throbbed at his temple. Beatrice smacked the back of his head. "Ow!"

"Next time I'm gonna to get a water bottle to squirt you with. Get a grip, man! Wasn't the last time you saw him, like, when you were back in high school?"

"Yeah, but he was _popular_, Bea! And Sara told me a couple weeks ago she saw him at the drug store. He's mobile, he's out on the town! He was at the _drug store_, Beatrice! He was probably there buying… buying _cough syrup_, because he's out there in the streets slinging _drugs_, making more money than I could ever hope to make from listening to people complain about their meaningless lives-"

Beatrice cleared her throat.

"Sorry. But my point is, he's a thug! A pimp! And everyone _loves_ him! And everyone includes _my girlfriend!"_

"You ever considered getting screened for schizophrenia? 'Cuz you're veering dangerously close to schizo territory right about now."

He gave a pathetic little sound and leaned forward with his face in his hands. "My life is crumbling all around me."

"Let's focus on that for a minute, okay? Let's focus on your life. Forget about this weird version of Jason you made up. Forget about Sara. We're going to focus on _you_."

"O-okay…"

"And I think," she said, reaching out and slapping a hand on his slack shoulder, shaking him, "the best thing we can do for you right now, is get you wasted."

"No, Beatrice, I really don't-"

"Sure ya do." Beatrice stood up, grabbing him by the hand and pulling him to his feet. "I know the perfect place. We're gonna get you liquored up and outta your head, and you won't even remember any of this horse hockey, and if that don't work then nothin' will." She dragged him to the door.

"Beatrice," he said, tripping over his feet. "If that actually worked, you wouldn't be seeing me every Wednesday."

"Look. I don't see you coming up with any better ideas. Do you wanna get messed up or not?"

"Yes," he said, "but aren't you forgetting something?"

"What..?" She looked down. "Oh, yeah. Lemme get some clothes on real quick."

* * *

Wirt and Beatrice walked down the street together on that still-warm early autumn evening. Beatrice's hair was wet and she was wearing the same stained white t-shirt, faded blue jeans and falling-apart tennis shoes from earlier that day. Wirt saw the hole-in-the-wall bar they were heading towards and, suddenly self-conscious, untucked his shirt, unbuttoned a couple buttons, and rolled up his sleeves. _Dark Lantern_, the little wooden sign hanging off the building read. Wirt gulped as Beatrice pushed open the door and strode inside, and he closely followed suit.

The bar's patrons mainly consisted of weary tradesmen who had just come from their place of work. Wirt looked around and saw a short, pudgy baker still smeared in flour sitting at a table across from a tall, pudgy butcher still dressed in his bloodstained apron. He saw a knife handle poking out of his pocket. Wirt locked eyes with him briefly before coughing and looking away.

There was a band set up in one corner, playing something that could pass as avant-garde psychedelic indie alternative something-or-other from a neglected bargain record bin. "I come for open mic night sometimes," Beatrice said, the sound of her voice hovering just above the din. "The folks here are the only ones who can really appreciate solo death metal."

Wirt had heard her music a couple times before. It scared him.

They sat at the bar and Beatrice ordered them both Miller Lights. The barkeep, a busty older woman who physically couldn't look at Beatrice without glaring, set the bottles down in front of them a touch too forcefully without uttering a word. Beatrice twisted the lid off and took a long, slow drink as Wirt struggled and fidgeted with his.

One beer soon became two and three, and although everything Wirt knew as a therapist screamed at him that this was wrong, he couldn't help but feel better. Beatrice seemed to be right more often than not. She ordered two shots of whiskey.

"For the love a' God," the barkeep said, grating the shot glasses across the counter, "Keep your shirt on this time."

Beatrice raised her whiskey to the barkeep, who had already turned away and busied herself with something else. With a smirk, she clinked her glass against Wirt's and downed it in a quick gulp. Wirt closed his eyes, hailed Mary, and spilled the burning nastiness down his gullet.

As the night went on, the band's music sounded better and better. Empty bottles lined up on the counter, and empty shot glasses were refilled by a scowling bartender. Beatrice managed to keep her shirt on. Wirt somehow managed to stay upright in his seat.

"Forget Sara, man," Beatrice slurred. "Let's find you a new girl."

"N-no, I can't do that, Bea." Wirt sipped his beer as Beatrice laughed. "Really, I can't do that. S-Sara… Sara would kill me."

"C'_moooon_. Lighten up, Worry-Wirt. What's she gonna do, send Mack Daddy Funderberker after you?"

"Fuh… Funderberker…"

"You and me got very different ideas about what 'popular in high school' means, man. Lemme give it to you straight: Jason's at Wednesday night Bible study, Sara's there with him getting filled with the Holy Ghost, and you and me are out here cruising for chicks."

"I…" Wirt propped his head up against his fist. "I dunno, Beatrice…"

Beatrice took a long drag from her beer. She slammed the empty bottle down on the counter, knocking over several of the others. "AY!" she barked, snapping her fingers. The bartender set another Miller Light in front of her and immediately walked away as Beatrice was in the middle of asking, not for the first time, if she could get a veteran's discount. She shook her head and turned back to Wirt. "Lighten up and join me, or I'm finding you the ugliest whore in this place. And trust me, there's a lot of 'em."

"Fffine." He turned around in his seat and peered around the bar as he sipped his beer. He nudged Beatrice. "How about her?"

She slapped Wirt's hand down. "Don't point, ya square." She looked. There was a smallish young woman, very pale and with dark shoulder-length hair, walking their way. She wore a tight, green off-the-shoulder sweater, neckline riding at a dangerous spot on her chest, the frills and straps of some black lingerie plainly visible. Her pleated plaid mid-thigh skirt swayed with her hips. She'd almost be too well put-together for a place like this, were it not for her stringy hair and dark eyebags.

Beatrice turned sideways in her seat, one hand resting on the counter holding her drink, the thumb of her other hand hooked in the waistband of her jeans. As the woman walked by, she casually stuck her middle finger out and it caught on the edge of her skirt, pulling it up.

The pale woman stopped and flattened the back of her skirt, glancing over her shoulder as she did so. Beatrice sat there unassumingly drinking her beer, and Wirt looked away, red in the face. He glanced back at her out of the corner of his eye and she flashed a shy grin at him before she kept walking.

Wirt's neck craned to watch her. When she was out of earshot, his head whipped back to Beatrice, who was looking very pleased with herself. _"Bea, don't do that!"_

"Don't do what? I don't think she's the one for you, anyway," she said, folding her arms on the counter. "She has those nice clothes, prolly real expensive, and yet she can't afford panties. It's all a sham." Wirt was melting. A rancid grin curled up on Beatrice's face.

A minute later, there was a tap on Wirt's shoulder. He glanced over at Beatrice, who waggled her eyebrows at him. "What?" He looked behind him and found himself face to face with the pale woman. He gasped and slipped backwards out of the barstool.

Beatrice caught him by his collar and put him back, patting the top of his head and ruffling his hair. "Hey there," she said.

"Hello," said the pale woman, with a light English accent to her voice.

Wirt stared at her, dumbfounded. "Uhh…"

"Pardon my friend," said Beatrice. "He's a li'l shy. Ain't that right, Wirt?"

"Umm…" Beatrice slapped him hard on the back. He jerked into a casual pose, leaning on the counter. "Uh, yeah, haha, w-what's your name?"

She smiled serenely at him. "Lorna," she said.

"Lorna," he said. "Th-that's a, uh, a pretty name…" He saw her lips move, but didn't hear her say thank you. His heart quivered, every neuron in his brain was firing off at once, and he could feel the individual beads of sweat rising up on his forehead and in the palms of his hands. The static hung in the air. Wirt was all but paralyzed, and Lorna stared at him with her pale blue eyes, her expression becoming concerned.

"…Sooo," said Beatrice, "what brings a gal like you here all by yourself?"

"Just feeling a bit wicked tonight, I suppose."

Wirt gave a nervous laugh. "Aren't we all."

"Are you two a couple?" asked Lorna.

"Hah!" Beatrice burst out, taking a swig of her beer. "No."

Wirt stared blankly ahead, feelings of guilt and shame creeping in. "No," he said, hiccupping. "Beatrice and I are just friends. I- I already have a girlfriend, she's just not here right n- _ow!" _Beatrice pinched him in the ribs.

"Ah, I see." Lorna pushed the skinny straw of her frou-frou drink in circles around the glass. "Well, don't think me rude, but I've got to run. It was nice meeting you both." They both watched her walk away.

Beatrice groaned. "_Uggghhh_, you're _killin'_ me, Wirt!" She whistled for the bartender, who was beginning to look very tired. "Vodka Red Bull," Beatrice said.

"I'm sorry, Beatrice, I cracked."

"Yer darn right you did." She snatched the shot as soon as the barkeep set it down and tipped her head back. "So much for trying to help," she said, placing the empty glass with the hoard of others on the counter. "I'm gonna go take a whiz. Just try and take it easy, okay?"

"Okay," said Wirt. He pushed his beer aside and slumped with the sides of his head resting in his hands.

The barkeep leaned over to him, her bosom pressing against the edge of the counter, looking about ready to bust out of her shirt. "You need another one, sweetheart?"

"No thanks, I'm good." He sighed. He was ready to go home.

* * *

Beatrice stepped out of the stall and was headed for the door when she noticed the same woman from before staring at herself in the mirror. "Hey, sorry about my friend earlier, he's an idiot."

After a brief pause, Lorna turned to see the tall redhead – Beatrice, she remembered hearing the awkward one say – standing there, leaning against the cracked, graffitied wall. "Oh, that's alright," Lorna said, pushing wisps from her bangs out of her face. The smudged white marbles in Beatrice's head were fixed on her with some kind of warmth, and based on her lax smile, she could tell that it was a rare feeling for her. Lorna smiled back, weakly.

A gunshot echoed through the bar.

Beatrice jumped, whipping her head around. "What the..?" Several more gunshots sounded off in rapid succession, and screams filled the air. Beatrice froze, tense and twitching, and a pang went through Lorna's heart. She began to reach out to touch her, but snapped herself back to staring in the mirror, her dark hair falling in her face.

"Oh my God. Oh my God." Beatrice shook herself out and took a deep breath. "Okay. Stay here," she said, not bothering to see if Lorna was listening.

She bent her knees and crept out of the bathroom. Grabbing a table from in front of her, she flipped it on its side and peered around the edge. Wirt was curled up under the counter, shaking, with his arms wrapped over his head. Several bleeding bodies littered the floor, their chairs knocked over and their drinks spilled beside them. A crazy man wearing a much-too-big balaclava and shabby red collared shirt was standing in front of the entrance waving an AR-15 around like an idiot. His shiny new combat boots clomped across the wooden floor as he fired at the scattering bar patrons. Beatrice felt a body thump against the table and a man's voice groan. She looked down at him, and he looked up at her.

It was the butcher. With a shaking hand, he reached into the pocket of his apron and pulled out a cleaver, nodding and coughing blood as he handed it to Beatrice. She took it from him as he went limp.

The slaughterer became the slaughtered. Her wild eyes bored through the shooter. She'd have to return the favor.

The shooter in red stormed over to the counter, pointing his gun over it at the cowering barkeep. Now was Beatrice's chance. Knife gripped in her calloused hand, she shoved the table and the body aside and sprinted, half stumbling, at the gunman. She charged into him, bumping his gun as he pulled the trigger, the bullet shattering a bottle of liquor on the shelf behind the bar. Disoriented, he jerked his elbow upward into Beatrice's jaw. She winced as her head jolted, neck vertebrae popping in a way that they definitely weren't supposed to. Gripping the top of his masked head, she yanked it backward and swung the cleaver at his exposed neck.

The blade got stuck halfway through his throat. The remaining bar patrons gasped as Beatrice yanked it out and reeled back, and a burble of frothy red rose up in the gunman's mouth, blood spraying from his gashed windpipe. She could see his yellowed eyes rolling back into his skull, his stubbled jaws gasping for air that had no place to go. His rifle clattered to the floor as Beatrice swung again, this time severing his neck. He stumbled and swayed for a long, chilling several seconds, dancing with death, before he fell forward against the counter.

And once more, there stood the carnage-soaked victor, barely knowing where she was or what had just happened. Her chest heaved as she drew in heavy, gasping breaths, her rigid arm clenching the dripping cleaver at her side.

The police burst into the bar, all with their G19s pointed at her, and at that moment Beatrice realized she was holding up a severed head for all to see.

And before she knew it, her body jerked and shuddered as it was riddled with nine-millimeter bullets, and she collapsed into the communal pool of blood.

No one noticed the pale woman creeping out of the bathroom, her blue eyes beholding the spectacle as she made for the rear exit.


	2. Vivisection

Officer Jones stood in the doorway to the Dark Lantern, smoking gun still pointed at the spot in the air where the madwoman once stood. As the other officers stormed inside the bar, she lowered her weapon and stepped in slowly, circling the brutish redhead's gunned-down body. A cleaver lay near her left hand, a masked head near her right.

She paused. A knife? The dispatch call was for a shooting.

Her eyes scanned the scene, watching her fellow officers step over bodies – all filled with bullet holes – as they searched the premises. She saw the headless man slumped over the counter, and her gaze dropped down to the AR-15 laying by his feet.

They got the wrong person.

"The area's all clear," said an officer as he approached her, drawing her out of her thoughts. "And the paramedics will be here soon."

"Good," she said, placing her gun back in its holster. "Good."

Without the sound of the policemen' boots thumping against the wooden floor, the bar was quiet. Officer Jones could hear the steady drip from the contents of a shattered liquor bottle. She heard air wetly sucking through a hole in the redhead's lungs. She heard a male voice gently sobbing from across the bar. A familiar voice. She looked under the counter and her eyes widened.

"Wirt!" She ran over to him, tossing aside a barstool and kneeling down, scooping up his quivering body in her arms.

He reeked of liquor, and he stared at her with small, shaking pupils, his reddened eyes wet with tears. "S-Sara…"

"Shh, it's okay, you're okay," she said, holding him close. She sat back and looked over him. "You are okay, right?"

He buried his face in her shoulder, nodding. His fingers clung to the black fabric of her uniform. The sound of an approaching ambulance's siren entered his ears and he looked up.

He saw Beatrice's body on the floor. The paramedics came in with a stretcher, and then she was gone.

He pushed away from Sara before leaning over and vomiting. She reached out and placed a hand on his back. Wirt sat there on his hands and knees, staring into the puddle of his stomach contents on the floor. Wiping off his mouth with her sleeve, Sara pulled him back into her arms.

"It's okay, baby, it's gonna be okay," she said. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"I… I was sitting here, and I heard a gunshot. I got down on the floor and hid. I didn't see who it was or anything else. M-my eyes were closed." He looked away, running his fingers through the tousled hair on the back of his head. "But… th- that woman…" He pointed a shaking hand towards the door. "Beatrice. You remember her, right? She came over for dinner a couple times. I-is she gonna be okay?"

Sara stared at him for a moment. "…Let's get you home, alright? I have to go back to the station and give a report, but I can give you a ride in the squad car and drop you off back home afterword."

"…Okay," Wirt said, and Sara helped him up from the floor. His knees were weak, and they walked out of the bar together with his arm around her shoulder.

* * *

After a stop at the police station, the car pulled into the parking lot of the tenement building. Sara all but carried Wirt up the two flights of stairs to their apartment. When they got there, they found the door ajar.

"Really? Does this have to be happening right now?" Sara huffed, pulling her gun and holding it low. She nudged open the door and stepped inside, flicking on the light switch. Wirt lingered behind, feeling sick again.

A minute later, Sara hollered to him. "Come on. There's no one here."

Wirt entered the apartment, his head spinning, his steps slow and heavy. Looking around, he found nothing out of place – not that there was much worth stealing to begin with. All the drawers and cabinets were shut, the TV still sat in its spot in front of the couch. He walked down the hall to the bedroom where he found Sara looking through the closet. "I- I'm sorry," he said, "I mus- must have forgotten to lock the door before I left…"

"It's okay, Wirt. You just need to be more careful. It doesn't _look_ like they took anything," she said, "but I don't have time to be too thorough right now. I gotta head up to the hospital to check on the suspect. Can you look around and make sure-"

"Take me with you," Wirt said.

"Wirt…" She sat down on the bed, and Wirt sat down next to her. "I know you're worried about your friend, but she's the suspect."

"What? No, no, no… That- that can't be right…"

"It's just a technicality, Wirt. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time with blood on her hands. As soon as I can get some more eyewitness testimonies and talk with her, I'm sure this will all get cleared up." She kissed him on the forehead. "But in the meantime, you just need to get some rest. I promise I'll be back soon."

"Okay," Wirt said as Sara stood up. She placed her hands on his shoulders and gave him a light squeeze. Then she turned and left, shutting the bedroom door behind her.

* * *

It was September of 1969. Mrs. Lynch lay in the hospital bed with her feet in the stirrups, and Mr. Lynch stood beside her, holding her hand tight. She had broken two of his fingers, but he was too anxious to care. None of this was supposed to be happening for another two months.

After hours of struggling, the tiny little thing slipped out, unmoving. The doctor cut the cord and carried it away as Mrs. Lynch sobbed and reached out with her arms. Her husband shouted as he started to follow the doctor, but the nurses held him back. Looking above all the commotion, Mrs. Lynch caught a brief glimpse of her baby girl struggling to draw breath before the doctor disappeared through the doorway with her in his arms.

Her head fell back into the pillow as tears streamed down her face.

She was so small, and so blue. She was their firstborn.

* * *

Beatrice's eyes cracked open, and at once she was assaulted by blinding light. Naked and dazed, she looked around and saw shrouded figures surrounding her, their heads and faces covered except for a slit around their eyes. Dear God, she was still in Afghanistan, they dragged her from the plane crash, they were flaying her alive, she had to get out of here-

She couldn't move. As her vision cleared, she saw one of the figures reach into the cavity in her chest with a pair of forceps. There was a pinch, and the forceps came back out grasping a bullet.

She realized then that she was not breathing on her own. There were tubes in her nose, tubes running down her throat and poking through the side of her chest, tubes in the battered veins in her arms, another tube in her-

Oh. That one was uncomfortable. She didn't enjoy that feeling at all.

She forced her fingers to curl and twitch. The surgeon with the forceps turned his head towards the anesthesiologist. He fumbled for the syringe of Propofol as Beatrice began to push herself up from the operating table. The surgeons moved to restrain her, but with some resistance she managed to jerk her arm upward to yank out her breathing tube with a swift tug.

"If you eggheads don't get your act together real quick," she rasped, "I'm gonna break my foot off in your a-"

Fire ran through her veins as the anesthesiologist injected the drug into her intravenous drip. "Aaaah." She went limp in the surgeons' grip, eyelids growing heavy. "That's more like it," she mumbled, slipping back under.

* * *

Officer Sara Jones stood outside the operating room doors with a doctor who was overlooking a clipboard. "She's been in surgery for two hours already," the doctor said. He flipped through the papers, his eyes sinking into his heavy eyebags. "She's in a rough state. She was shot in the intestines, her kidney, and twice in her lungs. It's a miracle none of her ribs were broken. It's comforting to know that our city's police force is full of good shots, don't get me wrong, but it makes our job a little harder."

"But is she going to live?"

"We're not sure yet, but if she does, you'll be the first to know."

Sara took the doctor's pen and scribbled her information on his clipboard. "Keep me posted. I need to be here as soon as she's conscious."

"Of course."

"Thank you, doctor." Sara turned and walked down the long hospital corridor. Something felt very off about all of this. Self-defense was one thing, but she hacked the man's head off with a butcher knife. She was one of Wirt's regular patients, for crying in the night – she clearly wasn't mentally stable. So why was she out drinking with her therapist? Friends or not, Wirt should know better.

Unless…

Sara shook her head and kept on walking. She'd talk things over with Wirt later. There had to be a reasonable explanation behind this.

* * *

Wirt stood motionless in the shower, blinking as the cold water pelted his back. How long had he been in there? He could have sworn the water was hot just a few minutes ago. He turned off the faucet and pulled back the curtain, his knees threatening to give out as his feet touched the slick tile floor.

Opening the bathroom door, he padded down the hallway and into the bedroom. He was freezing cold and dripping wet, but he couldn't be brought to care. He shut the door behind him and walked over to the bed. He slipped under the sheets and laid there like a stone. A cold, wet stone.

His burning eyes stared dead ahead at the off-white wall. He wasn't going to fall asleep and he knew it. Sitting up in bed, he turned on the lamp and looked through the nightstand for some reading material. He froze.

There was an empty spot in the drawer. Sara kept a revolver and a box of bullets there.

Wirt heard the bedroom door open, and he jumped and held his hands in the air.

"Wirt, relax, it's just me."

When he opened his eyes, he saw Sara hovering in the doorway. She slowly stepped into the bedroom and pulled the door shut. "Sara, I need to tell you something," said Wirt.

"That's good, because I was going to ask you something." She removed her bulletproof vest and utility belt.

"Your gun's missing."

She had just started unbuttoning her shirt when she looked up. "What?"

"The gun and the bullets you keep in the nightstand, they're gone. The burglar must have taken them."

Sara sighed. "I'll file a report in the morning. It's not like we're completely unarmed anyway." She finished undressing herself and climbed into bed with Wirt. "I'll keep you safe."

Wirt smiled wearily at her. "Did you say you were going to ask me something?"

"Nevermind, it's not important." She reached over him and turned out the light. "Goodnight, babe. I'm glad you're home safe."

"Me too."

They laid there silently in the dark for hours.

* * *

The tiny house was dark and warm, with the only light coming from the burning candlesticks scattered about. A noisy old folk record spun on a wobbly old turntable in the corner of the room. The whole place smelled of yarn, must, potpourri, and marijuana.

Lorna lay back in a rickety antique loveseat, sparking an intricate glass bowl. She took a long, slow hit and exhaled the plume of smoke a minute later, coughing lightly.

An older woman lounged across from her on a couch. She gave her a sly grin, her eyes squinted. "How do you like that, dear?"

"It's very nice." Lorna sparked the bowl again, crossing her stockinged feet.

"Of course it is. How could I give my dear niece anything less after a hard day's night?"

A coughing fit set upon Lorna. "Th-thank you, Auntie Adelaide," she stuttered amidst her wheezes.

"Think nothing of it. Now, take it easy, dear, I'm expecting a phone call — one of utmost importance, as I'm sure you know." Adelaide rapped her long, yellowed nails on the end table. She glanced up at the pendulum clock hanging above the empty, soot-stained fireplace. It was 11:59.

The minute and hour hands ticked forward in unison, and the clock chimed a little tune. The ringing of the phone joined in the sound. Adelaide picked up the receiver and held it close to her wrinkled lips. "And who could it be, calling an old woman at such an hour?"

From her spot, Lorna could hear a faint man's voice coming through the speaker. She leaned in and tried to listen to what he was saying, but Adelaide turned away from her. "Ah, we have a prank caller on the line. A little delinquent, a troublemaker! Though, I suppose I've done my fair share of prank calling, in my day," said Adelaide. She held out two fingers to Lorna, and her niece quickly fetched the carton of cigarettes from the end table, lit one, and gave it to her.

Adelaide took a drag as the person on the other end spoke. "Haha, why, yes, just tonight I prank called a local business. They weren't too pleased, but it was all in good fun. I told them their establishment was in violation of the health code and it needed a swift cleaning. It must have caused quite a stir when the cleaning crew came by during business hours." As she spoke, smoke poured out of her mouth. "In fact, my niece was there as it all unfolded. She says the looks on their faces were priceless. Who says an old woman can't cause a little ruckus every now and again?"

She tapped the ashes into the full ashtray on the scratched coffee table. "Oh, yes, of course. The janitor was fired immediately afterword. I don't think he took it too well. He didn't even utter a bleeding word!" Silence. "Yes, I thought you might find that amusing. I'm sure the local small business sector will be talking about this little incident for some time."

Adelaide closed her eyes and dipped her head with a smile. "Until next time, my dear delinquent." She placed the handset back on the hook and puffed her cigarette.

Lorna was curled up in the loveseat, with her head on the armrest, turned toward Adelaide. "Did we do good, Auntie?"

"We did horribly, my little sheep." She extinguished the cigarette butt in the ashtray. "Horribly good."

Lorna rolled onto her back and placed the glass pipe to her lips once more. She stared intently at the sparks and flame of the lighter, and the glowing embers of the buds as she inhaled. She released her breath and watched as the reddish glow died away.

Her eyelids fluttered shut as she replayed the scene from mere hours before in her mind, and the redhead of intrigue graced her thoughts. She was beyond any man or woman she had ever seen – could such a specimen be called human? She was animalism incarnate, her every cell adorned in war paint. She was fight-or-flight tying a blindfold around the knowledge of good and evil. She was Kali draped in a garland of skulls, her very existence a threat to disembowel the universe, hang herself with the entrails, and cut the wings from the angels of Heaven. And yet she was very human; she bowed her knee to the ego and id just like everyone else. How silly she was to carry herself with such bold self-assuredness, when all it took to bring her down was a few small bits of metal!

She imagined her there, lying in the pool of blood, still and silent, sleeping in heavenly peace, bathed in the plasma of Lord knows how many. A Bathory of most unfortunate circumstance. What a pity, that she lay now in pristine white hospital sheets. Setting the pipe aside, she stretched out her legs before shifting to a standing position, lacing her fingers. "Auntie, I have somewhere I need to go."

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Lorna could make no promises. She was feeling very wicked tonight.

* * *

It was March of 1983. The day was cold, rainy and miserable. Beatrice sat inside that afternoon staring out the window, the family Greyhound beside her with his tongue lazily hanging out of his mouth. Her younger siblings ran through the cramped house, giggling and shouting and making the sounds that young mouths do.

Beatrice had found the old dog, not an old dog back then, on a day not too unlike this. He was a tiny, quivering thing, soaked to his slender bones, curled up under the porch to escape the rain. She scooped him up in her arms and carried him inside, and her folks couldn't resist young Beatrice's little pleading green eyes. She named him Dirt, after where she found him lying.

Her hand rested on the dog's graying head. His ears perked as the headlights from her father's pickup truck shone through the window. As he turned into the driveway, Beatrice stood and walked to the front door, the dog's nails clicking along on the floor behind her. Her father came up the walkway, his work boots caked in mud and his shirt smeared in grease, and Beatrice opened the door for him. The Greyhound wriggled past her and darted outside. _"Dirt!"_ Beatrice shouted. She shoved her father aside and ran after the dog.

Dirt was an old dog, but he was still a very, very stupid dog.

Beatrice was almost close enough to reach the scruff of his neck when a firm hand yanked her back by the collar of her t-shirt. Her father wrapped his arms around her and she struggled, kicking and screaming as the car sped by and laid poor old Dirt to waste.

The car kept on going. Beatrice stared it down as her father let go and took her by the hand. They walked into the street where the old dog's mangled body lay, quivering and soaked to his battered bones. Beatrice knelt down and held him in her arms. He looked up at her, tongue waggling out of his mouth, blood dripping from the edge of his lips. She could feel his chest constrict as he panted, his snapped ribs prodding through his thin skin.

"Dirt, dude. Come on. D-dont… You can't…" She swallowed down the lump in her throat and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

Her father knelt beside her, placing a hand on her shuddering shoulder. "It's alright, BB. He was an old dog, anyway. Didn't have too much longer left on this Earth."

Her mother stood in the doorway to the house, and Beatrice's younger siblings gathered behind her, peering around her legs.

The Lynch family buried Dirt in the backyard that evening, under an old dead tree. Her mother asked Beatrice if she wanted to say a few words. With her hands dug in her pockets, Beatrice turned and walked back inside the house, heading straight to her room and slamming the door.

* * *

Beatrice lay still in the dark, cold room. The ventilator whirred and whooshed, a constant rising and falling sound, all throughout the night. Beatrice's chest, stuffed with wads of gauze and stuck with vital monitors all over, rose and fell to the shallow rhythm.

Her bleary eyes opened slowly, and through the darkness and the haze she picked up on a smallish figure standing at her bedside. She blinked a couple times and the figure was still there. With great effort, she tried to turn her head.

"Relax," said Lorna, reaching out to touch the redhead's hair. She ran her slender fingers through its waves, gently pulling apart the knots. "I'm so sorry a person like you had to get caught up in all that mess."

Beatrice tried to speak, but the tube in her throat kept her vocal cords from vibrating. She tried once more to move, but the anesthesia drugs lingered in her bloodstream, paralyzing her. Lorna ran her hands down to her shoulders, pressing her lightly against the thin mattress. The taller woman looked like a turtle stuck on its back. Pathetic. Helpless. Ripe. "_Shh_. No more struggling, my turtle. Just relax."

Beatrice's eyes grew heavy, and before she drifted off again, she saw the pale woman with blue eyes leaning over her in the dark.

* * *

"Take a deep breath for me and then cough," said the doctor at Beatrice's bedside, the morning sun shining through the windows of the sterile white room as he ran a suction catheter down Beatrice's throat. He quickly pulled out her breathing tube and she hacked and gagged and spit on herself. She glared at the doctor as he placed an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth.

"Give me a few good breaths," he said, taking out a stethoscope and pressing it to her throat. "Alright, now I'm just going to listen to your chest for a moment," he said, tugging down her blanket. His eyebrows rose. "What happened to you? And where's your gown?"

"What do you mean, 'what happened to me'? I got shot, you dumb sh-" Beatrice looked down and realized her chest was covered in bruises and bite marks. "Huh." Frowning, she poked at a couple of the deep reddish-purple blotches, whispering _"ow"_ under her breath. "That's weird. I dunno how those got there."

The doctor sighed, shifting his gaze across the room. "Well, anyways, she's all yours. Just try to keep it brief."

"Do I have to do this now?" Beatrice rasped.

"The sooner you answer my questions, the sooner I leave you alone," said Officer Jones, who stood between Beatrice's bed and the door.

"Fine."

Officer Jones glanced at the doctor, and he nodded and left the room. She cleared her throat. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you." She slipped her hand into her pocket and pressed the record button on the tape player she had stashed there. She crossed her wrists in front of her. "You got all that?"

"Yup."

"Good. Just got a few quick questions for you."

Beatrice crossed her arms behind her head, still not bothering to pull the blanket back up. "Hit me."

"Why were you at the Dark Lantern last night?"

"I went out for a drink with a friend."

"And who was that friend?"

"His name's Wirt. Sounds made up, but that's what his parents named him."

Sara's lip stiffened for a moment, but she took a deep breath and put her shoulders back. "Can you tell me what happened after that?"

"Ain't much to it. I was takin' a whiz. Some nut in a mask walked in and started shooting everyone up. I grabbed a knife and did what I had to do."

"Why did you cut his head off? Isn't that a bit much?"

"Wasn't anything personal; I brought a knife to a gunfight. I couldn't take any chances. I'm sure _you_ know that better than _anybody_," Beatrice said, cocking an eyebrow.

"Fair enough," Sara said, but she still wasn't totally buying it. You had to be a special kind of sick to go around hacking people's heads off with butchery tools. But the circumstantial evidence was on her side, and the witness accounts from the survivors backed her up. "Alright, your story checks out," she said. "That was a brave thing you did. You saved a lot of people's lives." She reached out her hand. "We're sorry for the misunderstanding."

Beatrice shook it firmly. "'Sorry' doesn't get me outta this craphole any faster."

"I'll try to get you some compensation from the police department. Veterans' Affairs will cover your medical expenses."

"How do you know I'm a..?" Beatrice crossed her arms and furrowed her brow. "Hey, wait a sec… You're Sara, ain't you? Wirt's girlfriend? Hah, you look different with your uniform on."

"Yeah, I do. One more question for you: do you really not know how you got those bruises?"

"No, I really don't."

"Alright. Thank you for your time," Officer Jones said, tugging the blanket back up around Beatrice's shoulders. Turning away from the bed, she reached into her pocket and stopped the recording.

"Not like I have anywhere better to be," said Beatrice.

Officer Jones left the room hard-faced, her shoulders stiff and slanted forward, her fists balled. She turned her head to see the doctor standing beside the doorway, holding a folded hospital gown close to his chest. Her gaze met his and he flinched and adjusted his glasses as he scurried back into Beatrice's room.

As she walked down the pristine linoleum corridor, Sara couldn't shake the feeling that Wirt and Beatrice did a little more than just go out for a friendly drink the night before. The green fluorescent light cast shadows from her brows into her eye sockets.

* * *

The setting sun lingered behind the sharp roofline of the old courthouse. Two men appeared from between the tall white columns, stepping into the cool shadows over the steps. The taller of the two men, dressed in black, strode lightly down the squared stones, with his arms crossed behind his back and his head help upright. His companion, a slouching older gentleman in a wrinkled gray suit, walked beside him with slow, heavy, pained footfalls. He picked up his drooping head and looked out at the city below.

"Hmm. That's odd," he said, his voice gravelly, "there aren't any reporters out today."

"Yes. Odd."

The man in the gray suit looked back and forth. The only other living souls around were the two policemen waiting by their car in the street. For such a high-profile case, the courthouse ought to have been swarming with members of the press. Perhaps it was for the better. After all this mess was over, he wanted as much distance between himself and his client as possible.

At last the two reached the bottom of the steps, and the tall man stuck out his arm, elbow bent at a sharp 90 degree angle, and briskly shook hands with his attorney. "Today's proceedings went well, Forrester. Let that continue to be so."

Mr. Forrester felt dread crawling up his insides. It was a command his client had given, and yet he spoke in such a way that it became a statement, a subtle decree; the unconcerned uttering of a secret only the tall man in the black suit was privy to. Their arthritic hands released in unison and dropped to their sides.

The black figure turned away and stepped towards the police car, looking over his shoulder as the officers ushered him into the back seat. "Tell your daughter I said hello," he said.

And before Mr. Forrester knew it, he was gone, and he stood numbly staring at an empty spot in the street.

He needed a drink.

The court proceedings replayed in his mind as he stumbled down the street in his worn-through dress shoes. In any sane and just world, his client would be getting the chair. Or the firing squad. Or a public hanging. But he had been an attorney for too long and seen too much to fantasize about such things anymore. Those idiots in the jury ate up his every word. He was very good at his job. It was his burden.

"Hey, stop right there!"

Shaken from his thoughts, Mr. Forrester looked up from the cracked concrete to find himself face to face with a disgruntled police officer. Looking past him, he saw the Dark Lantern wrapped up in crime scene tape, a herd of reporters bunched up against it as close as they could manage without getting barked at by the numerous officers pacing inside and out. "P-pardon," he mumbled, taken aback by the scene. "What… _is_ all this?"

"You haven't heard? There was a mass shooting here last night. Gonna have to do your drinking somewhere else, pal."

He said nothing, his wide-eyed gaze fixed on nothing, feeling nothing but dread crawling up his insides once more. Curtly nodding to the officer, he turned and walked away as fast as he could, the white knuckles of his right hand gripping his briefcase, his shaking left hand clenching and unclenching as it hung by his side.

Mr. Forrester stumbled in through the front door of his house, leaning all of his weight against it as he shut it and locked it tight. He ignored his daughter's greeting as he walked straight to the kitchen and grabbed the bottle of whiskey from the counter. His trembling fingers uncorked it with a sickly squeaking _pop_ and he took a long pull, dipping his head back. He felt a smallish hand on his shoulder, and when he set the bottle down and looked over, he saw Anna standing there, pain showing through the mask of her young, innocent face. "What's wrong, dad?"

His big arms pulled her in flat against his stomach and chest and held her there. Closing his eyes, he turned his head sideways and rested it against the top of hers. "This world isn't right and I should not have brought you into it. I'm sorry." He released her and placed one of his large hands firmly on her shoulder as he hit the bottle with the other. He wiped his mouth on his gray sleeve. "If you knew what I was doing, who I was defending, you would never forgive me."

Anna usually had the right words to say when her father became like this. Today, she could only wrap her arms around him with her eyes closed as he wasted away.


	3. Heavenly Commission

The bright morning sunshine cut through the brisk autumn air and shone through the stained-glass windows of the Church of the Potter's Field. Golden specks of dust floated through the beams, dancing over the ornate, grimy displays of heavenly harvests and memento moris in the arms of God. Reverend Enoch stood behind his pulpit, his large, imposing frame blanketed in tassels and tweed. He adjusted his circular eyeglasses at the end of his wide nose, a wide grin stretching across his soft, bearded face as the congregation settled themselves into their seats. "Good morning, brothers and sisters, sons and daughters of the Lord. Praise Him for bringing you all safely to His house once more." The congregation gave a hearty _amen_. "Let us all stand now and make a joyous sound for His glory."

Enoch stepped down from the stage as his people rose and the worship band began to play. As he made his way down the steps, he looked up and scanned over the congregation. His jaw tightened as he spotted two women, one older and one younger, both dressed in black, sitting at the back of the church, staring back at him with hungry eyes. Shaking his head, he sidestepped into the end of the pew closest to him and took up a hymnbook. The brother beside him reached up to pat his back and Enoch forced the cheery smile to return to his face.

Enoch rapped his fingers against the lovingly-worn hardback as the band played on. The presence of the two women hung over his head like a dark cloud. Glancing over his shoulder, the younger woman gave a coy little wave. His shoulders rose up towards his ears as he stared as hard as he could into the hymnbook. Though he was certain the Lord delighted in his congregation's praise and worship, Enoch himself was too perturbed to enjoy it.

At last the band wrapped up their playing, laid down their instruments, and headed to the pews. Setting the hymnbook down, Enoch straightened out the collar of his suit and stepped up to the pulpit. "Praise God," he said. "Even in this world gone astray, He still watches over us and gives us great shelter and peace in His house. He guides us towards the path of righteousness which led you all here today, and it is in this place where He will one day bury us and carry our spirits away to join Him, that we may be vessels for the pouring out of His wrath against all iniquity," he said, opening his Bible and flipping through the thin pages. "In return for these greatest of blessings, the Lord asks of us only a small favor: _bring ye all the tithes into the storehouse, and prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it."_

Members of the congregation stood and came forward with goods in their arms. Some placed dollar bills in the offering plate. A wiry middle-aged woman sat several cans of nonperishables down on the steps of the altar. A stocky older man dumped handfuls of 12-gauge shells atop the small pile of cash. A barrel-chested man with a long face and shifty eyes approached the altar. He reached into the inside pocket of his faded leather jacket and pulled out a snub-nosed .45 revolver and a box of bullets, setting them down amongst the other goods and nodding to the pastor. Enoch smiled warmly at him. "Very nice," he purred.

Enoch flipped to another page in his large old leather-bound Bible as the congregation returned to their seats. "A most bountiful harvest has been delivered to us this day, and I can feel in my spirit right now the Lord of hosts smiling warmly upon his chosen few. These times are growing dark, yes, and wickedness creeps around every corner of this world. But I promise you, my brothers and sisters – no, the Lord promises – that we are all safe in this sacred place. Now, if I may, I'd like to ask you all to turn with me to Romans chapter eight…"

As Enoch preached his sermon, his eyes kept darting to the back of the church. The young woman in black sat with her cheek resting in her palm, and the little old woman leaned against her shoulder, nodding off. But through their squinted, drooping eyelids, they watched him. Chills ran down his spine.

"…Now remember, my children, that none may condemn us or separate us from the love of Christ. May we face death all day long for Him. We are preaching our own funeral as we go through this life. Don't forget that!"

_Amen_, said the congregation.

Enoch closed his Bible, letting his large hand linger on the soft front cover. "Before you all leave me today, I ask that we stand together in prayer."

Enoch's people rose. The harlots in the back remained seated, though now more alert and watching more intently. He exhaled through his nose, a growl tickling the back of his throat. He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and lifted his hands. "Lord God, we ask you today to continue watching over us and guiding us in all our ways. May our trials and tribulations, the sweat of our brow and the aching of our backs, all be used for the glory of Your kingdom. May we be given the wisdom and good judgment to see through the clever face of evil, and may we have the strength and righteousness to cast out the wickedness from our every footfall." Silently, he asked the Lord to smite the she-devils defiling His house. Enoch opened his eyes and frowned when he saw the two women still sitting there. "Amen."

The people stood and filed out of the church, some approaching the pulpit to shake his hand on their way out. Among them was the man with the shifty eyes and the leather jacket. Enoch patted him on the shoulder. "The Lord is most pleased with your offerings, Brother Frederick. They will serve Him well someday."

"Thank ya kindly, Reverend Enoch. Y'know, it's amazing how the houses of the unholy are just left wide open for us God-fearin' folks to, ah… Harvest as we see fit."

"Yes, it is amazing. All part of the Lord's bountiful blessings. Take care, Brother Frederick."

"You too, Reverend." Fred turned and walked toward the doors of the church, tugging his jacket closer around him and lowering his head as he walked past the women in the back pew.

The once bustling church soon emptied out, and all that remained were the man of God and the two ravens who picked apart his bones with their eyes. Broadening his shoulders and adjusting his glasses, he stood before the altar with his arms crossed behind his back as the women stood and walked down the aisle.

"Riveting sermon, Reverend," said the older woman, squinting her eyes and smiling at him.

"Madam Adelaide. Miss Lorna." He stared down at them, furrowing his bushy brows. "I don't like it when you two stick your noses in here during the service."

"Oh, but Reverend," said Lorna, strutting around him, "how could we miss even a moment?" She sat down on the steps to the stage, dipping her slender hand into the offering plate and letting the shells roll from her fingers.

His feet remained planted where he stood. The hands behind his back turned to fists. "Business is business and worship is worship! Is that so hard to understand?"

"Oh, Enoch, don't be such a silly boy," said Adelaide, running her hand along his arm. "You know full well that your worship and our business go hand-in-hand."

He shrugged away from her touch. "Not anymore, they don't."

"Those stained-glass windows are very pretty. They didn't pay for themselves, did they?" Lorna looked over her shoulder, her smile sickeningly sweet as she turned back to Enoch. "It would be a shame if they were to end up broken."

"You wouldn't dare."

"We can do much worse," said Adelaide, her voice low.

Enoch looked away, his forehead creased as he ran his fingers through his curly beard. "What is it exactly that you want?"

"Nothing you would miss," said Adelaide, "just a few of your sheep."

"And I suppose you wouldn't happen to need them for some yard work, would you?"

Adelaide gave a short cackle. "No. Though I'm sure it would be nothing outside of their skillset. We only need a little… distraction."

Enoch gasped. "No!"

"Come now, Reverend," said Lorna, who crept up by his side when he wasn't looking, "surely God could spill out just a few little drops of his wrath a bit early?"

Enoch took a few stumbling steps backward, waving his hands. "No, no, never. It's one thing to take from our stockpile, but to come in here and blaspheme against the Lord and spit on His prophesy-"

"I can think of several three-letter organizations who would _love_ to hear about your little _prophesy_, Enoch," said Adelaide, lacing her fingers. "In fact, I'm very certain they'd like to see your little stockpile too, as proof of your ceaseless devotion."

Enoch stopped cold.

"Now that I have your attention," said Adelaide, "you don't really think me cruel enough to just _threaten_ you into doing what we want, do you?" Silence. "Of course not, my silly, silly boy. There's something in it for you, and I think you'd appreciate it greatly."

"…Go on."

"Consider it a repayment of the little things we borrowed over the years."

"And then some," Lorna said. "You like new toys, don't you Enoch?"

He grit his teeth. "I- I'm not so materialistic as to trade-"

"The harvest is calling you, Enoch." Adelaide beckoned with her finger, and Lorna came up alongside her. The two turned and began walking towards the door. Adelaide looked over her shoulder. "You'd best get to work before the fields are barren."

Enoch watched them as they stepped through the golden beams that poured in through the ornate windows, scattering the glittering dust through the air with their footfalls. The little old woman in black pushed open the heavy double doors to the church, and she and her coconspirator slipped away into the early afternoon sunshine. The disgraced reverend's knees creaked as he sat himself down at the steps by the altar, his large hands dwarfing the .45 as he took it up and contemplated it. With his thumb and forefinger he turned the cylinder, listening as each chamber clicked slowly past.

* * *

Beatrice slept past the morning service in the hospital chapel. She sat alone in the nicked, creaking wooden pew, bare feet against the crunchy carpeted floor as the green fluorescent light bathed over her like bleach. It glinted off the thin waves of greasy red hair that cascaded down around her bowed head. One of her hands clung to her IV pole, the other rested on her knee.

Behind the veil of hair in her face, one of her eyes peeped open, staring up at the resin-cast crucifix hanging on the wall at the end of the room. The anguished face of Christ stared up further still toward the tiled ceiling. Beatrice dropped her head a little lower, leaning her weight against the cold stainless steel pole as the bag of diluted morphine dangling from the top dripped down into her stuck vein.

She nodded off, and she soon found herself observing the memory of a younger woman, her frame leaner and her hair haphazardly shorter-cropped. It was June of 1988, and she sat alone on the forest floor swishing her hands through the tall green grass, with dirt under her fingernails and sparse, broken sunbeams pouring down on her face. Leaning back against a tall tree, she pulled another can from the smuggled case of her father's beer, cracking it open and taking a long, slow gulp. She was only 18 then, and her high school graduation was already in the rearview mirror. It was only a matter of time before she would be shipped off for basic training.

She scuffed her sneaker in the dirt and looked to the sky. Somewhere not too far off, a bird was singing. She took another sip as she listened. There came a flittering sound, and the smudged white marbles in Beatrice's head drifted down to see a bluebird perched on a swaying branch. She felt around in the dirt for a moment and her fingers wrapped themselves around a smooth stone.

Tipping her head back, she finished off the can and crushed it, tossing it aside to join the growing pile. Then, lightning quick, she reeled her arm back and whipped the stone. It struck the bird dead-on and it dropped down to the grasses below with a light _thump_. Beatrice stared at the crumpled pile of grayish-blue feathers, her freckled face expressionless.

From deeper in the trees there came the sound of foliage rustling and twigs snapping underfoot. Beatrice froze as a large black dog, covered in mange and with foam dripping from his mouth, lurked into the clearing. Dipping his snarling head down, he snatched up the tiny feathered body in his jaws. The bird wildly flapped its wings as the dog's teeth sunk in. He turned to Beatrice, his eyes wild and starkly blank in the sea of dark, matted fur. She could hear the hollow _crunch_ as his dripping jaws tightened, and the bird fell limp. Then, still carrying the little corpse, he turned and trotted back into the trees.

* * *

Beatrice jerked awake, releasing a held breath and gasping for air. There was a hand on her tense shoulder, and she looked up to see the hospital chaplain hovering above her.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice soft.

"Yeah." She worked on quieting her breathing, swallowed, and nodded. "Yeah, I'm okay. I think." She grunted as she stood up, ignoring the chaplain's offered hand. He stepped aside as she stumbled past, wheeling along the IV pole in her grip.

Beatrice walked down the long white corridors, her bare feet lightly sticking to the linoleum tiles, her pale blue hospital gown flowing around her, the back unfastened. At last she entered her room and laid herself back down in bed. Just as she got herself settled, a doctor stepped in.

"You have some visitors here to see you," he said.

"If they've got black uniforms and silver badges, I'm not interested." She crossed her arms, staring out the window and contemplating flinging herself out of it as she heard footsteps and shuffling through the doorway.

"You know, we'd hoped to see you _not_ in the hospital for a change."

"Mom?" Beatrice blurted out as she whipped her head around. The room was suddenly filled with a sea of red-haired people, her tired-looking brothers and sisters, her little nieces and nephews who were little no more. At the front of the pack were her mother and father, looking a little more wrinkled and gray and hunched-over than the last time she had seen them. "Shoot, you all didn't have to come."

"It's been almost 20 years, BB, we'll take what we can get," said her father. Her mother shot him a sidelong stern look.

The hazy memory of waking up on American soil, badly sunburned and barely coherent, with her family staring down at her from all around her hospital bed, hit her like a sock to the jaw. Had it really been that long? How old was she again..?

"I, uh…" She drifted back to the present and ran a hand through her greasy hair. "I still get your holiday cards, at least."

"Oh, nevermind that," said her mother, coming up to her bedside and holding Beatrice's hand, "we're just glad you're alive."

"I called everyone up as soon as I saw your name on the news," one of her brothers said. "I couldn't believe it was you."

"I could," said her father. "You really are bound and determined to make us worry about you until the day we die, huh?" He stepped around to the other side of her bed and slapped a hand on her back, beaming at her from beneath his bushy gray mustache.

"Yeah, well…"

"Oh, hey, I brought ya somethin', kiddo," he said, setting a folded bundle of clothes in her lap. "Heard you'd be gettin' out of here soon, so I brought you some new threads. Well, new to you, anyway – they came from my closet, hopefully they fit."

"Aw, geez, you didn't have to do all that," Beatrice said, picking up the shirt and holding it out in front of her. It was a short-sleeved button-down covered in palm trees and hibiscus flowers. It was hideous. Beatrice loved it.

"The docs said they had to cut your old clothes off in the ambulance," he said. "Figured it wouldn't be proper to let ya walk out of here in your birthday suit. What kind of father would I be?"

"And you know, Beatrice, if you ever need anything, anything at all, all you have to do is reach out," said her mother. "Look around. You've got no shortage of support. I really wish you wouldn't suffer alone."

Beatrice looked out at all the awkward, smiling faces. She only knew her parents and siblings anymore from choppy, faded memories, and her nieces and nephews had all grown up without knowing their deadbeat, good-for-nothing Aunt Bea – things were better off that way. She couldn't be helped and they all knew it.

Beatrice made herself smile too. "Thanks, guys. This means a lot to me."

* * *

"I'm having second thoughts, guys."

"C'mon, Larry. You know the Lord don't appreciate doubters."

Larry sat in the back seat of the rusty old car, fidgeting with the collar of his flannel shirt. "Yeah, but… I dunno, fellas. What about '_thou shalt not kill'_...?"

The man in the driver's seat turned around, a cheap rubber mask of a skull over his head. "_Righteous indignation_, brother."

"But… this is a _hospital_. What have the sick done to make God mad?"

"Somethin' bad enough for God to make 'em sick, obviously." The man riding shotgun pulled on his skull mask. "Besides, all we're doin' is… moving their souls along a little faster. They're already sick and hurting and _waiting_ to die, we're just lettin' 'em meet God early. It's a good deed, really."

"More importantly," said the driver, "it's what Enoch expects of us. If we let Enoch down, we let the Lord down."

"Yeah… I guess you're right," said the man in the back seat, closing his eyes and putting on his mask. "Enoch wouldn't steer us wrong."

The three Potter's Field congregation members got out of the car and walked around to the back. The driver opened the rusted trunk. Lying on the stained, torn-up carpeted floor were two gritty sawed-off shotguns. Larry reached in, grabbing the weapons and handing them off to his brothers. He pulled a snub-nosed .45 revolver from the holster on his belt and shut the trunk.

* * *

Beatrice lay in her clean white sheets early that Monday morning. The world outside was still cold and pitch-black, and she rested her heavy head in her pillow. She was being discharged from the hospital later that day. Sighing, she tried to enjoy the last of her morphine drip.

The sound of a far-off gunshot drifted into her ears. She closed her eyes a little tighter and rolled over. _"It's just your imagination, Beatrice,"_ she murmured.

_BOOM!_

Beatrice sat up in bed. Screams and trampling footsteps echoed through the halls as more _booms_ and _pops_ sounded off. She frowned and grit her teeth as she listened, staring into a dark corner of her room.

The gunshots and footsteps grew louder. She closed her eyes. _"Don't be a hero, Beatrice."_ She pressed a finger into one of her wounds as a reminder.

The footsteps sounded like they were coming from the end of the hallway outside her room. _"Don't."_ She dug the finger in deeper.

A door opened somewhere and several more shots popped off. The footsteps grew louder. A growl rose up in Beatrice's throat as she hoisted herself out of bed, slowly wheeling her IV pole over to the door.

_"In here,"_ a muffled voice said.

Begrudgingly, she disconnected her IV line and lifted the stainless-steel pole, gripping it in both hands like a club. She stood beside the door, the light from the hallway pouring in through the small rectangular window. She bent her knees and dropped to a fighting stance, her heart pounding. She was breathing hard and her chest hurt. She was tired.

The door opened, and a man pointing a revolver and wearing a rubber skull mask stepped in. Beatrice swung as hard as she could, and the pole cracked with a thumping metallic _clang_ into the gunman's head. He groaned and dropped his weapon as he fell forward. Beatrice dropped the pole, and it clattered to the floor as she reached out and snatched him by the collar. She kicked the gun away and pulled him into a chokehold, holding him closely in front of her.

The hallway light was blinding, but as her eyes adjusted, she saw two more masked figures, both pointing shotguns at her. The man in her arms began to stir, squirming in her grip and shaking his head, whimpering. From beneath the mask, blood streamed down his neck and stained the collar of his flannel shirt. The other men lowered their weapons.

Beatrice's eyes drifted past them to the end of the hall. Then she heard the boots pounding against the linoleum. She tossed the body down and dove for cover in the room as the police opened fire.

She sat at the side of her bed, arms wrapped around her knees as she gasped for air. A little pool of crimson crept in through the doorway, sliding around the one gunman's twitching body and soaking into the fabric of his faded flannel and blue jeans. A pair of black boots stepped over him and waded through the blood.

Beatrice looked up. Officer Jones stared back at the woman in her hospital gown on the floor and lowered her pistol. "You again, huh?"

"Me again."

She nodded curtly to Beatrice and turned out of the room, barking an order to the other officers before they turned and stampeded down another hallway. Beatrice lowered her head to her knees and fell asleep right there.

* * *

Several hours later, the police finished their search and the lockdown on the hospital ended. Beatrice ditched the hospital gown for a slightly-too-tight floral print shirt, faded blue jeans, and her falling-apart sneakers, flecked with dried blood, that the EMTs managed to salvage from her body several nights before. She walked through the hospital lobby, swarming with police officers and nurses wrapped in shock blankets, and made her way to the front door. She was stopped by a hand on her shoulder, and she turned to see Officer Jones looking up at her.

"Am I free to go, officer?"

"Of course. I just wanted to, y'know… thank you. For your bravery. Again." Sara looked away. "Um. Sorry this keeps happening to you."

Beatrice cracked a sly little grin. "Hey, at least it wasn't me getting mowed down this time."

"Speaking of which, try not to do anything too strenuous for a while, okay? You need to let those wounds heal."

She gave her a little salute. "Yes, ma'am."

Sara realized her hand was still resting on Beatrice's absurdly firm shoulder. She quickly gave her a friendly pat and let her walk away.

Beatrice pushed through the glass double doors and stepped out into the early morning sunshine. She took a deep breath, deep enough to make her lungs hurt, and released it. For better or for worse, she was still alive.

She looked out over the parking lot. A line of policemen stood holding back a mob of reporters. Sighing, she stood taller and made her hands into fists as she strode out into the madness. Two of the policemen nodded to her as they stepped aside to let her through. Immediately, there were cameras and microphones in Beatrice's face.

One particularly persistent reporter followed her as she pushed through the crowd. "Here on the scene we have Beatrice Lynch, the incredible woman who stopped the hospital shooters just hours ago. According to our sources, she was in the hospital from injuries she received while stopping the shooting at the Dark Lantern bar just last week. Ms. Lynch, what do you have to say about these chaotic times?"

"Go to hell."

The reporter pulled the microphone away. "These shocking events must be too much for her to bear. How many more people in our nation must be traumatized like this before our government-"

Beatrice whipped around and shoved both of her middle fingers in front of the camera lens. The crowd backed away from her, cameras flashing, and Beatrice huffed as she broadened her shoulders and walked down the street.

* * *

The sparse chatter floating through the sun-warmed air of the little mom-and-pop diner quieted as soon as Beatrice came through the doors. The few scattered patrons stared at the redheaded floral-printed behemoth as she strode in and took a seat at a booth by a window. She sat with her fingers laced together, hands resting on the table, and she didn't look at the waitress who walked up beside her. "Coffee. Black," Beatrice said, and the waitress frowned as she scurried off.

Beatrice leaned back in the booth and glanced over to the front counter. Sighing, she stood up and walked over, sticking her thumbs through her belt loops as she stood in front of the cashier. "Y'all got a phone I can use?"

The wiry middle-aged woman nodded and slid the chunky old push button telephone across the counter. Beatrice picked up the handset, punched in the familiar number, and leaned back as it rang.

"Dr. Marshall's office."

"Hey, Wirt."

"Oh my Go- _Beatrice?_ I heard about what happened on the radio this morning, a-are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Hey, listen, are you busy right now?"

"No, I don't have another appointment for an hour or so. What's going on..?"

"I'm at the little diner right now, the one on the corner of Birch and Washington. Come get breakfast with me."

"Uh, I- alright, I'll be there in a minute. Bye."

Beatrice hung up the phone and dipped her chin to the cashier. When she got back to her table, a white mug of steaming black coffee was there waiting for her. She sat down with a light _oof_ and took a long, slow drink, eyes closed. When she opened them again, she found herself locking eyes with a small, pale young woman with dark, shoulder-length hair, sitting in a booth at the other side of the diner across from a large older woman. The older woman said something, and the girl coughed and blinked her deer-in-headlights expression away, mumbling a response while shooting little intermittent glances at Beatrice.

Beatrice's copper brows furrowed. She recognized the girl from somewhere… Maybe she saw her in a dream? She chased a few fleeting thoughts before shaking her head and returning her attention to her brew.

Several quiet minutes went by. Beatrice went to take a sip from her empty mug.

"Hey, Beatrice."

She jumped and the ceramic coffee mug clattered noisily to the table. Wirt took a cautious step back. "Shoot, Wirt, don't sneak up on me like that," Beatrice grumbled.

"Sorry, Bea," Wirt said softly as he slid into the worn, cracking faux-leather seat. "Um… How are you doing?"

"I'm fine. I'd be better if I could get some _service_ in here," she said, shooting a dirty look at the waitress. The waitress gave her an equally dirty look as she walked over to the table, coffee pot in hand, and refilled Beatrice's mug.

The waitress turned to Wirt. "Can I get you anything?"

"I'll just have, some, uh… Juice."

"…Orange?"

"Uh, yeah, whatever."

The server shook her head as she walked away. Wirt rapped his thin fingers against the table, staring off into space. He looked up at Beatrice, who was staring down into the steaming blackness. "So, uh…" He rested his jaw against the knuckles of his propped-up hand. "What's on your mind?"

"Nothin'."

"Come on, Beatrice, you know you can talk to me."

She shook her head. "I dunno. I just been thinkin'." She took a sip of her coffee. "This country ain't what it was like when I was a kid, y'know?"

"Yeah…" Wirt scratched at the whiskers on his face. "Yeah, I know what you mean."

"Or, who knows, maybe things were always this way and I was just too stupid to notice. But I don't think so."

"Well, you've been through a lot-"

"And then _that_ just gets me thinkin', like, is this really the country I spent…" She stopped to count on her fingers. "…Fourteen years of my life fighting for?"

"Beatrice…"

"It's like, _gee, thanks for defending our American way of life – _how it ended up in the middle of the desert, I don't know _– but now we're gonna shoot ya."_

"You weren't being targeted, Beatrice, it was just… well, I don't wanna say bad luck, but… a couple unfortunate circumstances – w-which you survived! It's like when we were talking about your _purpose_ the other day-"

"Hah, yeah, my purpose. So what?" She shut her eyes and took a sip of coffee. "Did I survive getting shot at by terrorists just so I could come home and get shot at by cops and backwater freaks in Halloween masks? I'm tired of gettin' shot at, man!"

"I mean, uh… How many more times could it possibly happen?"

"Don't jinx it, Wirt."

"Weren't you just telling me how much you wished you could be back in the 'heat of the moment'? What happened to that?"

Her face hardened and she sunk down into her seat. "Turns out I'm not 30 anymore, Wirt. I'm not out flying fighter jets; I'm at home spending half the day in bed because my back hurts. It was all just wishful thinking. I can see that now."

"Beatrice, you've seen more action in a few days than most people see in their whole lives. That means something."

"Look, I don't wanna talk about it anymore," she said, pushing her mug aside and standing up. "Coffee's kickin' anyway. If the waitress comes back, tell her I want a couple eggs and some toast. And, hell, a side of bacon too. It's not like my cholesterol can get any worse."

Wirt sunk down in his seat. "But Beatrice-"

"Just do it!" she said, walking away.

* * *

Beatrice stood at the sink, running her hands under the faucet for a second before flicking the water away and wiping her hands on her pants. The bathroom door opened and she saw a smallish figure walk by out of the corner of her eye. She looked up and her gaze met with the pale woman's again. Flustered, the younger woman turned and began to walk back out of the restroom. "Hey!" Beatrice barked. The woman froze.

"Ah, y-yes?"

"I swear I recognize you from somewhere, and I can't for the life of me remember where. You know how they say the mind's the first thing to go. Anyway, it's been buggin' me this whole time."

Lorna gave a sheepish laugh. "I- I believe we met at the bar the other night."

"Oh, yeah, that's right, because right afterword-" Beatrice stopped when Lorna's expression became anxious. "Um. Anyways… Nice seeing you again." She stepped past the shorter woman and was reaching for the door when she felt a slender-fingered hand on her back. She looked over her shoulder.

"I just wanted to thank you for saving me," Lorna said, her head angled down towards the floor and her hand stroking over the soft fabric of Beatrice's shirt. "I live with my Auntie, and if I weren't around, she… Well, I don't know what she'd do."

A gentle smile spread across Beatrice's tired face. "Hey, it was, uh… The least I could do."

Lorna took Beatrice by the hand. "I'm sure my Auntie would appreciate meeting you," she said.

"Well…" The sweet look on Lorna's face was pretty convincing. "Alright."

Beatrice pulled open the door and the two walked out together, with Lorna's arm resting in the small of the taller woman's back. Beatrice glanced down at her. The girl was clingy. How cute.

They stopped in front of the booth where the big lady was sitting. "Auntie Whispers," Lorna said, "There's someone I'd like you to meet."

The lady fixed her bulbous eyes on the redhead, sniffling with her big pink nose, and Beatrice wondered how in the world the two could have possibly been related. "Ohh, Lorna, who is this?" she said, her voice deep and slow as a stagnant river.

"Auntie, this is Beatrice," Lorna said, "she's the one who stopped the shooter the other day."

Beatrice offered her hand, and Ms. Whispers took it feebly. "So, you saved my Lorna. She told me all about it… every little detail." She pressed her wrinkled lips together in a thin, uncomfortable smile. "I can't thank you enough. Now if only you could keep her out of trouble…"

_"Auntie,"_ Lorna said.

"Hush, child," said Ms. Whispers. She looked back up at Beatrice. "Well, anyway, thank you again for letting my Lorna come home safely. I love her like she were my own daughter. Tell me, how can I repay you?

"Uh…" Dollar signs flashed very briefly in Beatrice's mind. She scratched the back of her neck and shook the thought away. "Don't worry about it."

"Are you sure? It would really be nothing, I assure you…" Ms. Whispers dipped her hand into her purse and waved several hundred-dollar bills.

Beatrice swallowed hard, glancing down at Lorna. Beatrice's suspicions from the other night were confirmed: she clearly came from money, big money. What was she doing hanging around at a place like the Dark Lantern? "I… can't accept that…"

"Of course you can, dear. It's the least I can give," the old lady said, taking Beatrice's hand and pressing the crisp bills into it.

"Only if you're sure," Beatrice said, already snaking the cash into her pocket. Ms. Whispers nodded with a smile. "Uh… Thank you."

"Certainly. You take care now, Beatrice. It was a pleasure meeting you."

"You too," Beatrice said before walking away. She was embarrassed to pocket a stranger's money like that, but she was in no position to refuse it. If a degenerate's head carried a price tag of $200, she'd gladly hack off many more.

She slid back into her seat across from Wirt, who was watching her with a dumbfounded expression. "What was that?" he asked.

"Funny story, actually. Remember that one chick from the bar the other night? The slutty one? I ran into her in the bathroom a little bit ago. Said she wanted to introduce me to her Auntie. Very generous woman." Beatrice took a sip of coffee and picked up her fork. "Breakfast is on me. Now eat up, kid, you could use some meat on them bones."

"No way," Wirt said, craning his neck around to get a look at the two women.

"Staring is rude, Wirt."

"Sorry," he said, going back to picking at his food. After a moment's thought, he looked up at her again, a hopeful look gleaming through his dark eyebags. "See, Beatrice? You make a difference in peoples' lives. It all comes back to you eventually." Beneath his long, patchy whiskers, he gave her a hesitant yet warm smile.

Beatrice looked away, nibbling on a piece of bacon. "Cut the crap, Wirt," she said, but she couldn't stop the little smirk from creeping up on her face.

* * *

Wirt's car sat by the curb in front of the shabby little convenience store down the street from Beatrice's apartment. "Hey, thanks again for breakfast," he said. "Are you doing anything later?"

"What do you think?" Beatrice said, her right hand gripping the door handle.

"I was just wondering if you'd want to come by our place for dinner later."

She was planning on just picking up something quick from the store, but an actual home-cooked meal sounded much, much better. "Sure."

"Cool, I'll pick you up around six," Wirt said, flashing a little smile.

"See ya." She opened the door and groaned as she pulled herself out of the cramped seat, pushing the door shut behind her. Wirt drove away and she shook out her aching knees as she passed through the empty parking lot, with dry dead weeds wisping up through cracks in its asphalt.

The pudgy teenaged cashier behind the counter had his attention wrapped up in the droning of the little radio sitting by the register. _"Four dead and six injured in the shooting that took place this morning at the Our Lady of Benevolence Hospital… A patient named Beatrice Lynch was able to stop the gunmen until police arrived… All three perpetrators were shot dead at the scene…"_ He heard the bell over the door jingle and mumbled out a "welcome."

A moment later, he heard a woman clear her throat. He looked up to see the tall redhead standing in front of the counter with her burly, tattooed arms crossed and her brow creased. "Oh, sorry 'bout that," the clerk said, reaching over and turning the radio down. "What can I get you?"

"Pack of American Spirit Blue and a lighter," she said. She watched the clerk as he scanned cluelessly over the wall of cigarettes. "Down a little, to your right. No, your other right." She sighed. "Look where I'm pointing. Yeah, right there."

He placed the pack of smokes and an American flag-patterned Bic lighter on the counter. "I'll need to see your ID, ma'am," he said.

"That's cute."

"No, really, it's company policy."

"And here I was thinking you were trying to flatter me," she said, digging into her pocket. She pulled out a beat-up trifold leather wallet and flipped it open, holding it up in front of his face.

He squinted his eyes and leaned in as he peered at the driver's license behind a thin plastic film. It had expired in 2005, and there was a small Armed Forces designation printed in the bottom right. He was formulating the words to refuse the sale without getting his face chewed off when he noticed the name on the license: LYNCH, BEATRICE MORGAN.

"Woah… Y'know what?" he said, sliding the goods across the counter. "It's on the house."

"Oh, wow, uh… Thanks," she said, grabbing up the lighter and the cigarettes and shoving them into her shirt pocket.

"Hey, actually, wait here a sec." He dashed out from behind the counter and Beatrice turned to watch him as he jogged down an aisle and disappeared through a heavy door at the back of the store.

The clerk stepped into the breakroom and pulled open the refrigerator door. His manager was sitting in a flimsy white plastic chair at a flimsy white plastic table smoking a joint. He looked over slowly and shifted his poofy hair out of his face. "Heeeyyy," he said, his voice grating, "it's not time for your break yet, is it?"

"Jason, you're never gonna believe who just came in," said the cashier, reaching into the fridge and pulling out a can of Monster Ultra Blue.

"Who?" Jason took another hit and puffed out a little smoke ring. "Woah, did you see that?"

"Yeah, that was sick, sir," the clerk said. He shut the door and turned to leave. "It's that one lady from all the news clippings you've been hoarding."

Jason coughed. "What?!" He stood up from the table, knocking his chair over in the process. "No wayy! Greg, are you serious?"

"Yessir," he said.

"Oh my God," Jason said, running his hands through his hair. "Wellll, what does she want?"

"She was just buyin' some cigarettes. Thought I'd give her a little token of 'ppreciation, with her being a local celebrity and all," he said, holding up the can. "Unless you'd like to..?"

"No, man, just get back out there," he said, ushering the clerk out of the breakroom. Jason took another hit of his joint before tucking it into his shirt pocket and following Greg through the door.

Beatrice had just finished sneaking several candy bars from the impulse buy shelf into her pocket when the cashier jogged up to her, panting. "Here," he said, holding up the tall aluminum can, "I was gonna have this during my break, but you deserve it more."

"I dunno about all that, kid," she said, taking the can and scanning over it warily. _"Is this what the kids are drinking these days?"_ she thought to herself.

"C'mon, you're a local hero! You don't have to be humble," he said, beaming at her.

Beatrice made a low grumbling sound. "I'm not- okay. Thanks," she said, turning and heading for the doors.

"Uh, take it easy," said the clerk, giving a little wave. The bell over the door jingled again and he watched as she walked through the parking lot while sipping on the Monster.

Jason stepped out of an aisle and stood in front of the door, staring down the street. He grabbed a newspaper from the rack and glanced down at it. _**Horrific Hospital Shooting Leaves Residents and Patients Shaken**_, the big headline on the front page read. "Wait a minute, man. That's not possible…" said Jason, holding out the paper for Greg to see. "That _just_ happened this morning. How is it already in today's paper?"

"Humm. Well, maybe- no, wait…" Greg crossed his arms. "Hm. That's a thinker."

"It's just like I've been trying to tell you, man," said Jason as he flipped through the pages. He stopped and tapped his finger against a small block of text tucked away at the end of the local news section. "Look. A paragraph. All Edelwood gets is a paragraph. Two weeks ago, he was on the front page."

Greg leaned in to see. "Maybe nothing interesting's happened in the case..?"

Jason shook his head. "That's what _they_ want you to think." He flipped back to the front page and scanned over the main article. His eyes widened as he read a particular passage: _"Beatrice Lynch, the war veteran and hero responsible for stopping the Dark Lantern shooting last week, was recovering from injuries sustained during that prior incident when the gunmen entered the hospital. She was tragically caught in the crossfire once more and shot dead."_

"Is somethin' wrong, sir?"

"Greg," Jason said, looking up, "do you believe in ghosts?"

* * *

The reddish light of the evening sun dripped in through the blinds of the tiny office behind the stage of the church. Reverend Enoch dwarfed the heavy wooden desk he slumped over, head bowed and eyes closed. He had his elbows bent and his laced hands pressed against his forehead.

The phone at the corner of the desk began to ring. Enoch sat up slowly in his soft leather chair and pulled a cigar box from the desk drawer. Setting it down, he slipped a brass Zippo lighter out of his suit pocket, the metal engraving of a cat hunting a bird in a grassy meadow glimmering in a thin beam of sunlight. Taking one of the fat cigars from the box between his thumb and forefinger, he lit the end and took a few puffs, then held it in his teeth as he picked up the phone.

"Enoch, my favorite holy man," crooned the old woman on the other end.

"Adelaide."

"It was so nice of you to send three of your big, strong boys to help clean up my yard."

Enoch furrowed his brow and clenched the cigar in his molars, a little wisp of smoke curling around his bald head.

"Unfortunately, they wore themselves out before they could finish the job. They didn't get around to clearing out the poison oak. You know, those _bright red_ leaves I told you about."

"Mmh." He rubbed his temple. Slipping the lighter back out of his pocket, he held it in his hand, contemplating the Bible verse inscribed on the other side. He angled it so the script glowed in the sunlight. "You told me the 'leaves' were dangerous, I don't know what more you expect. Maybe you should call the professionals to take care of that."

"Oh, Enoch, don't sell your lovely little congregation short. How will they be able to tend to the Garden of Eden if they can't even take care of an old woman's yard?"

"_Enough_, Adelaide. I'm not expending any more of my flock on your stupid…" He shifted the cigar in his teeth. _"…Landscaping."_

"Don't sound so certain about that, Enoch. I'm sure once you see your payment you'll change your mind. It should be arriving any moment now."

"I don't want your money!"

Adelaide laughed. "I look forward to doing business with you in the future."

_"Adelaide!" _Enoch roared, heart hammering in his chest. He slunk back into the chair, phone pressed against his head as the dial tone droned in his ear. The ashes from the end of his cigar dropped and crumbled against his chest.

A knocking echoed through the church, and Enoch sat up. He slammed the phone down and stashed the cigar box back in its spot in the drawer. He rose from his seat, brushing off his suit with a few swipes of his large hands and straightening out his collar. Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, he opened the office door and strode through the church.

He took a deep breath as stood before the large wooden double doors at the end of the room. He pushed them open, eyes closed.

"Uh, hi," he heard a small voice say. He looked down to see a girl with long brown hair, her hands stuffed in the pockets of her black hoodie. She stared up at him with dark, lost eyes.

"Hello," Enoch said. "What can I do for you, miss?"

"Sorry, I know it's a weird time," she said, looking away and tucking her hair behind her ear, "but I don't really know where else to go."

A pang went through his heart. He had never seen such a sad-looking young person in all his days. "Why don't you come in?" he said, stepping aside and holding the door open for her.

The petite young woman sat beside the gentle giant at the end of a long pew. "What's weighing on your heart?" Enoch asked.

"My dad's just been so depressed," she said. "It's his work that's getting to him."

"What does he do?"

"He's an attorney. He won't tell me much about it. All I know is that he's defending someone really bad."

Enoch's jaw tightened ever so slightly. "I see."

"And he's been so stressed out about all the stuff that's been going on in the news lately. It's like he's taking it personally."

"It's only natural for a father to worry," Enoch said.

"Yeah, he'd have a fit if he knew I left the house." She stared straight down into her lap, her slight fingers fidgeting with the hem of her long gray skirt. "Sorry for bothering you with all this stuff. It's just… my dad's all I have left. I just want to know how to help him."

The pastor placed a hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him, and the setting harvest sun shone brilliantly through the stained glass window on the opposite wall, the colored light glowing around the top of his head. "God called you to this place, and you answered" he said. "Now it's your turn to call out to Him. The Lord gives us all trials and tribulations, child, yourself and your father included. But He will never give you more than you can bear."

The girl went back to staring into her lap. Enoch reached into his pocket and handed her the brass lighter. "Read this, child," he said, sitting back and closing his eyes.

"Psalm 23:4… Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil… for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff… they comfort me."

A warm, wide smile settled upon the reverend's face. "Always remember that," he said, "and you will never be defeated. There are evil men out there; demonic spirits pulling the strings and trying to lead us astray. And there's no doubt they're trying to take hold of you and your father. But one day…" He stood up from the pew and paced to stand in the radiant light pooled on the floor below the window, arms crossed behind his back. "One day, the Lord will give you the strength to kill them."

"Kill them?"

"String them up. Cut their heads off. Make them pay for their wicked ways."

His words hung in the air. He coughed into his fist. "…Perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself," he said, walking back over to the girl and holding out his palm. She placed the lighter there and he stared at it for a moment before slipping it back into his pocket. "That's the fire of the Holy Spirit for you. Say, what's your name?"

"Anna," she said.

"Anna," he said, "we'd be more than happy to have you join us for our Wednesday night service. Get you better acquainted with the Holy Spirit. He can do great things for you, and I'm sure you can do great things for Him."

A gleam entered her gloomy eyes, and a light smile set upon her lips. "Yeah, that would be great," she said, standing up. "Thank you so much."

The reverend offered his hand, and the girl's frigid fingers burned against his warm, dark skin as they shook. He walked her to the door and pushed against the cross embossed in the wood, and she gave him a small wave as she walked away down the empty street.

In the distance, he heard tires against the pavement. He turned his head to see a black '78 Mustang slowly rolling up by the curb in front of the church. The doors opened and two masked figures stepped out and walked around to the trunk. The smaller of the two, a woman in a skeletal banshee mask and a long forest green dress, reached in and struggled to sling an oblong black nylon bag over her shoulder. She approached Enoch and her companion, a burly man in a leather horse mask, followed behind her. He carried a large ammo crate.

"If this is supposed to be some pathetic attempt at macabre humor," Enoch said, shifting his eyes between the two, "I don't appreciate it."

"You haven't even seen the punchline yet," the banshee-woman said, grunting as she slipped the case off her shoulder and shoved it into Enoch's arms. She stepped aside and the horse man handed him the ammo crate.

"You are young and foolish, Lorna," Enoch said, "and I pray dearly that you'll regret it one day."

She gave him a coy head tilt and daintily held her hand over her mouth. "There's plenty more where that came from, Reverend," she said. She turned and walked back to the car, and the horse man lingered for a moment, his empty black eyes searching Enoch's face before he followed her. The Mustang motored away and Enoch shut the door.

He carried the goods down the center aisle of the church, setting them down before the altar and kneeling. His hands hovered over the lid of the ammo crate. Taking a deep breath, he slowly flipped it open. His eyes grew large at the sight: the crate was filled to the brim, with the top layer comprised of small, shiny pistols. He gently lifted one out and released the magazine. Fully loaded. He pushed some of the pistols aside to find several belts of .308 bullets gleaming at him. Breathing heavily, he dug deeper. The bottom of the crate was lined with stacks of hundred dollar bills.

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and polished his glasses. With a shaking hand, he placed them back on his nose and unzipped the gun case. Laying there swaddled in black nylon was an M60. Enoch bowed his head and lifted his hands to the golden dust floating through the last rays of evening sun.

* * *

The apartment was quiet except for the bubbling of water in a pot. Beatrice swirled the deep red wine around her chipped glass as she sat at the plain kitchen table.

"They say that stuff's supposed be good for your heart, you know." Beatrice turned her head to see Wirt dumping the angel hair pasta into a strainer in the sink.

"Yeah," she said, taking a tiny sip and pursing her lips before setting the glass back down. "Never was too big on red wines, though. I'll never understand how somebody was able to take a grape and make it taste _that_ bitter."

"Don't you take your coffee black, though?"

"That's different." She rubbed her finger around the rim of the glass. "You know, the kid at the convenience store earlier gave me one of those energy drinks… Beast, I think it was called?"

"You mean Monster?"

"Yeah, Monster, that was it. Gave me a real nice pep and tasted like berries. I dunno if I can go back to drinking coffee now."

"My brother Greg is obsessed with those things. He must drink, like, three a day. I tell him that can't be good for him but he doesn't listen," Wirt said, divvying out the spaghetti onto three plates. He looked over his shoulder. "You know, I think he mentioned getting a job at a convenience store. Maybe you saw him today."

"Maybe." She took another sip of the wine. "Might head back up there tomorrow. I'll tell him you said hi."

Wirt was setting the plates at the table when the door to the apartment opened. "Oh," Sara said, stepping in and shrugging out of her bulletproof vest, "am I interrupting something?" She smiled, but her words carried the tiniest bit of edge.

Wirt ran a hand through his hair. "Shoot. I'm sorry, babe, I forgot to tell you," he said, walking over and kissing her cheek, "I invited Beatrice over for dinner. You're just in time, though." He took the vest from her and carried it down the hall to the bedroom.

Sara sat down to Beatrice's right at the table. "Busy day?" the redhead said in-between bites.

She exhaled through her nose, smirking. "Only a little bit busier than yours."

"Did the police department say anything about compensation?"

Sara looked away. "I asked. They said no."

"Figures."

Wirt paced back into the kitchen adjoining the dining area. "Is zinfandel alright?" he said, reaching up into a cabinet and grabbing another glass.

"Yeah, that's fine," Sara said, and a moment later her boyfriend set the full wine glass down beside her plate and took his seat at Beatrice's left.

The three ate quietly. After a while, Wirt looked up and noticed Beatrice staring into her dinner. "Not hungry?" he said, taking a sip of wine. "Or is it just no good? I know I'm not the greatest cook."

Beatrice said nothing, her eyes fixed on the slippery reddened noodles that writhed as she pushed her fork around. Writhing. Red, slick, and writhing.

"…You feeling okay?" Sara said.

She stabbed at her dinner. "I heard once that getting shot in the stomach is the most painful way to die."

"What?"

_"Christ on a cracker,"_ she hissed, scratching at her face. She looked up at Sara with wild eyes. "Sorry. Where's your bathroom?"

"…Down the hall, on the left."

"Thanks. 'Scuze me," she said, quickly standing up and heading down the hallway with her head down, aggressively scratching her neck.

The bathroom door slammed shut and locked. Sara looked to Wirt. "What the hell was that?"

Wirt was holding his head in his hands. "Not again," he groaned.

* * *

Beatrice stood in front of the mirror, staring into her own unfamiliar eyes as she reached into her shirt and pulled out the morphine IV bag she smuggled from the hospital. She took a needle from her pocket and drew out some of the fluid, then tucked the bag away and buttoned her shirt back up. Undoing her belt, she wrapped it around her bicep, bit down into the black leather, and pulled.

Her frown softened and her jaws loosened as the sweetness entered her bloodstream. It was the most beautiful way to die.

* * *

Sara glanced down the hall. "She's not shooting up in there, is she..?"

Wirt sighed. "Yeah…"

"Aren't you supposed to, like… Make sure she _doesn't_ do that?"

Wirt slouched and drank his wine.

Beatrice adjusted her belt as she stepped out of the hallway. She retook her spot at the kitchen table and sighed, a contented smile on her face. "What'd I miss?"

"Beatrice," Wirt said, wringing his hands, "is there anything you'd like to talk about?"

"Yeah," she said, picking up her fork, "what kind of spaghetti sauce is this? It's really good."

"Oh, it's homemade, actually! I found this nice recipe online-" Sara kicked him under the table. "_Ow_. I mean, um, is anything _else_ on your mind?"

"Nope. Jus' grateful to be in good company, with some good food."

"Aw, shucks, Bea- Beatrice! Come on, you're not fooling anyone. We all know what you were doing in there."

She tugged at her collar. "Yeesh, sorry. Guess the hospital food wasn't sittin' right."

"Do you have anyone else in your life you can talk to about this?"

"…My bowel movements?"

He slapped one of his hands on the table, tugging on his hair with the other. "Heroin, Beatrice! Your heroin habit! I know, you know, Sara knows, we all know you have a problem, and I can't help you with it if you won't stop talking about BMs!"

"Oh, so now you're ratting me out to the cop!"

"That is the _least_ of your problems, Beatrice, and frankly I think you ought to address my girlfriend with a little more _respect_."

"It's fine, Wirt," Sara said quietly.

"No, it's not fine," Wirt said. "Beatrice, for once, please just listen to me. You're 50 years old, you're hooked on heroin, you're unemployed, and you live alone. If you don't start putting in the _minimal_ amount of effort to help yourself…" The redhead was glaring at him, and he suddenly felt very small. "You're… Um…"

"I'm what, Wirt? I'm what? I'm gonna _die?_ Is that what you're so afraid of? You're afraid I'm gonna kick it before you can fix me and feel good about yourself?"

"I'm sorry Beatrice, I didn't mean-"

"You're afraid your fancy doctorate degree is gonna go to waste, huh? Well don't you worry your little head, because if bullets aren't gonna kill me, then nothin' will," she said, crossing her arms. "I've got a whole eternity of bad decisions ahead of me, bub. You're stuck with me."

"Look, Beatrice, I get it. You've defied the odds, you cheated death, you're some wonderful mistake of nature. That's great, more power to you. Shouldn't that make you want to… I don't know, do something more fulfilling with your life than just sitting around getting high?"

"Are you really trying to push that 'purpose' crap on me again, Wirt? Do you tell all your other patients the same exact thing every week?"

"You know what? Fine. Let me sum it all up for you," Wirt said, finishing his wine and pushing the glass aside. "You can never accept anything good that happens to you because you've trapped yourself in this little prison of isolation and escapism. You've got this all-or-nothing mindset, Bea, and I'm here to tell you that there's more to life than killing people and hard drugs."

"Why should I bother with anything else?" she sneered. "Why is anything else worth my valuable time?"

"You need more healthy human interaction, and obviously I'm not helping. Either spend more time with your family or go out and get a girlfriend."

"I- _what?"_ she said, her face suddenly flushing. "Now hold on, just where did you get the idea that I'm-"

"I thought looking up a girl's skirt was a pretty good indication."

"I- I- I…" She looked away, folding into herself. "Wirt, I was _drunk_. A-and don't you dare try to turn that around on me, I was trying to help _you!"_

"…Help him with what?" Sara said, slowly.

They both looked up at her. Beatrice glanced over at Wirt, who had a deer in headlights stare and was looking about as pale as the off-white wall behind him.

"You know what!" Beatrice said. "On that note, I think I'm gonna head out." She quickly shoveled a few more forkfuls of spaghetti into her mouth and stepped away from the table. "Thanks for dinner, have a nice life," she mumbled as she slammed the door to the apartment.

* * *

Beatrice kicked a crushed beer can down the sidewalk and flicked the ashes from the end of her cigarette. _Stupid_ Wirt and his _stupid_ cop girlfriend, she thought as she inhaled. _Girlfriend_. The word repulsed her. Blowing out a cloud of smoke, she dropped the spent cigarette butt, stepped on it, and shoved her fists into her pockets.

She looked to the street. There was a car slowly rolling by from the opposite direction. Under the streetlight, she caught a glimpse through the tinted windows. The driver and passenger were both wearing masks and staring her down. She tensed, craning her neck to watch them drive away. She shuddered and walked a little faster the rest of the way home.

When she got to her apartment, Beatrice noticed a flier taped to the door. She looked around. There weren't fliers on any of the other doors. She pulled it off, entered her apartment, and went straight for her bedroom.

Flopping down in her bed, she held the flier out above her face. There was a picture of skeletons kneeling before a cross on the front. _"The summer is past, the harvest is ended, and we are not saved," _it read. _"Visit the Church of the Potter's Field and become known to God."_

She set the flier on her nightstand and turned out the light. The words and the masked faces flashed in her mind as she nodded off.


	4. Oblivion

Fred's shaking, calloused hand reached out to push aside cigarette butts and sweep empty beer bottles off the nightstand. Glass shattered on the floor as his fingers wrapped around the creased, faded Polaroid resting in the ashes and dust. He gently lifted it up and held it above the spot where he laid in the middle of the large, neatly made bed. His hard gaze softened, and for a moment, it almost felt like the scruffy, baggy-eyed, baggy-clothed man in the photograph was still here with him.

Resting the photo atop his broad chest, he reached into the pocket of his distressed black jeans and pulled out a switchblade. Flicking it open, he closed his eyes as he twisted the point into the tip of his ring finger. He tucked the knife back into his pocket and took a tentative look at the blood beading up from the little cut before his gaze shifted to the stubbled face of the man in the picture. With a sigh, he dragged the finger across the man's neck and left a little trail of red there.

Fred set the Polaroid on the pillow beside him and hoped he was resting well, wherever he was.

Dragging himself out of bed, he paced around the room, bits of glass crunching under his scuffed cowboy boots, the dim lamplight casting hard shadows into his eye sockets. He stopped suddenly and whipped around, plowing his fist through the drywall. He pulled it out and shook off the dust as he stared into the numerous other holes riddling the crumbling wall.

Turning his back to the ruins, he sat down on the floor and ran his hands over his face and through his graying chestnut hair. His phone began to ring. He pulled it from his pocket and flipped it open. "Hello?" he said, his voice hoarse.

"Good evening, Freddie. My niece and I are in need of a delivery," the old woman said. "A little pick-me-up. You know, the usual."

"I'm busy."

He could hear the old woman on the other end chuckle. "Now, now, my little workhorse. Stewing in your trailer hardly counts as being busy. It would do you good to get out for a bit."

"I just went out earlier."

"My dear boy, how we already miss you so! Would you really deprive two ladies of your presence?"

"_Alriiight_, fine! I'll head over n' a minute."

"Wonderful. We'll be waiting."

The line went dead and Fred flipped the phone shut and stuffed it back in his pocket. Reaching under his bed, he pulled out the black leather horse mask and slipped it snugly over his head. He stood and walked out of the bedroom, the sound of his boots clomping against the marred floor echoing through the desolate trailer.

* * *

Adelaide set the phone receiver down and brought the smoking cigarette to her lips. Fixing her squinted eyes on her young niece, she sat back and exhaled a plume of smoke. "He should be here soon, my sheep. And in the meantime, I believe you and I have a few little things to discuss."

"Ah, yes… That…" Lorna kicked back in the loveseat, swinging her legs over the armrest. "Fred and I went to her apartment earlier. She wasn't home."

"How convenient." The old woman's forehead creased as she tapped her ashes into the porcelain dish on the coffee table. "Luck of the Irish, I suppose. But it'll run out soon. It always does, whenever someone is foolish enough to cross the Beast." She closed her eyes as a slight, warm smile curled across her lips.

"How is Mr. Edelwood doing? It must be awful, for a man like him to be locked up in such a cramped little cell."

"Yes, the man does enjoy the fresh air," Adelaide said. "He's holding up; the guards know better than to give him a hard time. Though I did receive a rather… perturbed phone call from him earlier. I'm sure you heard about the little gaff in today's paper."

"Mhmm…"

"I told him I'd have it fixed by tomorrow, but you know how fussy he gets sometimes. Though I can't blame the man; I'm sure the trial's got him very high-strung."

"Fix the paper or fix..?"

"Both, God willing."

Lorna sat up in the chair, lacing her hands over her knees. "Auntie?"

"_Yeeeess_, child?"

"Do you really think…" She stopped and looked to the ground before bashfully glancing up at Adelaide with big eyes. "Do you think Beatrice really has to die?"

Adelaide frowned and puffed on her cigarette.

"I mean, she must be… tired, and hurting. I'm sure she won't get in our way again."

The older woman reached over and stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. "Where is this foolishness coming from, Lorna? No one crosses the Beast without paying the ultimate price. Plenty of dime-a-dozen thugs and hoodrats meet the same fate every other week, why are you suddenly so worked up over a potbellied junkie?"

Lorna pulled her knees in to her chest and looked away. "I- I don't know, I just thought that maybe-"

"Enough, Lorna. I don't want to hear it. Lynch is going to die one way or another and that's that." Adelaide took another cigarette from the carton on the end table. "You're spending too much time around older women, dear. It's clouding your judgment."

The pale girl's face flushed. "It's not like that, Auntie. I just-"

There was a loud knocking at the door. Adelaide motioned with her hand before lighting her cigarette and bringing it to her lips. Lorna stood and straightened out her skirt as she walked across the dimly lit room. She opened the door to see the strong man in the leather jacket and horse mask standing beneath the porchlight.

"Hey, little girl. Is your Auntie home?"

"Ever the charmer, Fred," Lorna said, stepping aside to let him in. She followed behind him and soon retook her place curled up on the loveseat.

"Freddie, there you are! So good to see you," Adelaide said, smoke pouring from her mouth. "Did you bring me what I asked for?"

The horse man reached into his jacket and pulled out two baggies. He tossed them both to the coffee table, and Adelaide leaned forward and examined the fuzzy green buds and fine white powder.

"Very nice product, my boy. You make an old woman very happy," she said, sitting back and crossing her arms. "In fact, I think such nice product deserves better payment than some smelly old crumpled-up dead presidents, don't you?"

"No."

"Think about it for a moment, won't you? What could make your night better than a nice hit or two and a turn with my niece?" She took a drag from her cigarette and didn't notice Lorna tense up as she stared, wide-eyed, at the huge man in the center of the room. "You can't put a price on that, Freddie."

The horse head slowly turned, the empty eye sockets contemplating the young girl for a moment. He looked back at the older woman. "Stop playin' games with me, Adelaide. I want cash."

Adelaide scowled. "I'll get you interested in the fairer sex or die trying, Fred."

Fred crossed his arms. "Pay up. Now."

"Alright, young man, you drive a hard bargain. But I have an offer you simply can't refuse. Go look in that cupboard over there," she said, pointing over her shoulder with her cigarette.

Fred stared her down as his boots thumped across the floor to the kitchen. He reached up and opened the cabinet with a drawn-out creak, and a little gleam of light glinted at him from the darkness of the back corner. Grabbing out the glass vial, he held it up in the light. _"KCN,"_ the label read in a fine, fading script. He glanced over his shoulder at Adelaide.

"Come here," she said. He obeyed, lingering at the side of the couch. She held up the baggie of white heroin. "You and I both know that you like to cut your product, boy."

"I never cut my-"

"Yes you do. But I won't judge." She pressed the baggie into his hand. "I'm going to look the other way. And I'm going to give you something far more valuable than money: vengeance."

Fred stared down at the vial and the powder in his hands, his heavy breaths echoing through the thick leather.

"The woman who killed your friend in cold blood and desecrated his remains…" Adelaide smiled as she watched Fred's hands clench. "…Happens to have a nasty little habit. And I'm sure she'd appreciate a good fix now more than ever. And yours is the best, isn't it Freddie-boy?"

He rolled the vial over and over in his fingers. "Yeah, it is."

"Now, I have to warn you not to use too much of this cutting agent; it's very, very potent. Deadly, even in small amounts."

"Mhm."

"We're talking less than a milligram per pound here." Adelaide leaned forward and turned her head. "Lorna, you got a good look at her, about how much would you say..?"

The lightest dusting of warm pink settled on Lorna's cheeks. "Hundred and ninety, if we're being generous. M-mostly muscle…"

Fred glanced over his shoulder. "Jeezus, that's a big lady."

"She's a brick house," she murmured, looking away and covering her face with the slender hand resting under her jaw.

Adelaide sat back and blew out a cloud of smoke. "So now I'm sure you understand the importance of careful measurements…"

"Don't worry, ma'am," he said, "I'm nothin' if not careful."

"I'm sure you are, my boy." Adelaide brought the cigarette to her smiling lips. "Is that good enough payment for you?"

"All I ever needed," he said, slipping the baggie and the vial into his jacket pockets. He held out his hand to Adelaide, and she took it and fretted over the cut on his finger for a moment before shaking with him.

"Pleasure doing business with you, my little workhorse."

The two released and the room became quiet and still. The horse head sat high atop its monolith of scuffs and bruises and hard muscle, silently surveying the den of depravity. The older woman took a long drag and seemed to forget his presence. The younger girl stared up at him deeply with pale, anxious eyes. He looked down and tugged his mask tighter around his head, then strode across the soft old rug and disappeared through the front door.

The lingering silence and stillness in the little house only broke with the tiny crunch of Adelaide's cigarette butt against the porcelain ashtray. She glanced over at the girl in the loveseat. "Don't look so sad, dear." Sliding open the rickety end table drawer, she took out the glass pipe and handed it to Lorna, then passed her the plastic bag from the coffee table. "Smoke this and forget about whatever wickedness is going on in your head."

The pale girl curled up and opened the baggie, pulling off a few pieces from one of the fat, orange-haired buds and packing them into the bowl. She placed the pipe against her lips and leaned forward, and Adelaide flicked the flint wheel and dipped the little flame to crackle the dry leaves. Lorna laid back in the seat and took a long pull before holding the pipe out to the older woman.

Adelaide looked over at the girl through lidded eyes. Slowly, she reached out and took the pipe, bringing it to her lips and taking a few small puffs. She watched Lorna languidly recline, smoke streaming from the girl's nose as she propped her head up against her hand, smoky eyelids fluttering shut. "What are you thinking about, child?" the old woman said.

_"Hmmm…"_ Lorna sighed, exhaling the last of her hit. "Nothing."

"Good," Adelaide said, handing the pipe and lighter back. "Keep it that way. And before long, this little problem will be off our hands, Fred will finally stop wearing that stupid mask, and Beastie will walk free. Everything will go back to normal, Lorna. You'll see."

The girl curled up a little deeper in the loveseat.

"You know, I'm sure Mr. Edelwood will be very happy to see you. It's been so long. Once he's back to his old ways again, he'll have something nice for you. You're like a niece to him too, you know."

"Did he tell you that?"

Adelaide laid down on her side. "We are all trees in his forest, dear. All he asks of us is to obey him."

But how could a young woman stay obedient when there were such beautiful creatures running amuck out there? Mr. Edelwood's forest stretched far and wide, but what a cruel man he was to tempt her with an untouchable tree! She could hardly bear the thought of her one and only forbidden fruit rotting away on the vine. She took another long hit from the bowl, but the troublesome thought lingered in her mind.

Sighing away the lungful, she set the pipe to the side and stretched across the seat, her smooth legs dangling over the armrest. She stared up into the warm glow of the ceiling, suddenly feeling very, very lonely. Auntie Adelaide and Fred and Mr. Edelwood all made for nice company, and even Auntie Whispers on a good day, but still, there was something they could not give her. Right now, she wanted nothing more than a pair of strong arms around her.

Strong, tattooed arms attached to a glorious bullet-wounded body…

Lorna sat up quickly, reaching down the front of her sweater and pulling out her phone. She glanced down at the blank screen. "Ah, Auntie Adelaide, I-I've got to go," she said. "Auntie Whispers needs me."

"Let me guess, she forgot how to eat again?"

"That's not a very nice thing to say about your sister."

"Please, Lorna. We both know she isn't too fond of me either. I'm sure she's gotten herself all worked up over you hanging around here so much lately. She just doesn't understand business, I suppose. But go on," Adelaide said, waving her hand, "You wouldn't want to keep an old bird waiting."

"Thank you, Auntie." Lorna stood and made haste to the front door. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight. Oh, and Lorna?" Her niece paused and glanced over her shoulder. Adelaide peered at her through beady, piercing eyes. "For God's sake, don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"Of course, Auntie." But Auntie Adelaide didn't have 190 pounds of savory, delectable meat getting dangerously close to its expiration date. Stepping outside and shutting the door behind her, she made her way down the porch steps and looked over the street. She saw the black '78 Mustang still sitting in the driveway.

There was a tap on the window, and the black horseman in the driver's seat looked up from the digital scale balanced on his knee to see a pale face staring back at him. He rolled down the window and rested his elbow there. "Whaddaya want?"

"Hi, Fred," she said, her voice little more than a breathy sigh. Her slender fingers stroked over the sleeve of his leather jacket and he jerked away from her touch. "You know, there's really no rush," she said. "You don't want to be out any later tonight anyway, do you?"

"I got a job to do."

"Oh, yes, I know." She leaned against the car. "But what difference would it make, if she died tonight or tomorrow? She might not even be home yet. It would be a waste of a trip."

He was quiet for a moment. She could feel him frowning at her. "What's it matter to you?"

"All I'm saying is, if she _were_ home…" She paused, nonchalantly examining her nails. "…You wouldn't want to bother her too late, you know? Since she's got a mean streak and all."

Fred reached down into his pocket. He held up his switchblade, leaned through the window, and flicked it open. "I don't care."

"Alright," she said, stepping away from the car, "but when you're lying on Auntie's coffee table, and I'm picking lead out of you… don't say I didn't warn you."

Fred craned his neck, peering through the eyeholes as her slight figure vanished into the darkness, reappearing for brief moments in the glow of streetlights. She turned down another street and disappeared behind the side of a house. "Dumb slut," he muttered, shaking his head and pulling himself back through the window. Dumping the rest of the vial into the bag of white heroin, he tied it off, tossed the scale in the glovebox, and slowly pulled out of the driveway.

* * *

Lorna knelt before the door at the end of the hallway, beset on all sides by stained carpeting and unpatched walls. She dipped her head down and reached behind to pluck a bobby pin from her hair. Bending it straight, she slid it into the slit below the door handle. After a minute of work, there came the telltale click, and she turned the handle and crept inside the black apartment.

She gently eased the door shut behind her and looked around. The apartment was already familiar to her, having visited some hours before, and she breathed in deeply the sweet scent of stale cigarettes and death. She immersed herself in the temple of unbound human savagery, wading through the shadowy forms of beer bottles and pizza boxes looming in the edges of pitch darkness. Stopping beside the ruins of a coffee table, she admired the tableau of empty cigarette packs stacked up next to an energy drink can, surrounded by several candy wrappers and one old needle. It was a shrine to the undying lioness, deep in the heart of her den. Lorna turned her head and stared through the doorway at the other end of the apartment. She followed the trail of bottles, cans and cigarette butts to the bedroom, and there her lioness lay, silent and still atop the stained sheets hanging off the bed.

Had Lorna not known any better, she'd say she were already dead.

Stepping around the metal bedframe, she laced her hands in front of her and stood at Beatrice's side. The moonlight through the crumpled blinds left stripes across the older woman's face, and Lorna saw the rare, temporary peace that resided there. She ran her fingers through Beatrice's long, wavy hair as she looked around the bedroom. Turning around, she saw a closet door slightly ajar, a pile of old T-shirts and jeans spilling out of it. She slid it open and several beer bottles rolled out.

Her gaze shifted upward to the few shirts remaining on the hangers. She sifted through them. _Led Zeppelin… Motörhead… Miller Lite…_ she stopped as her fingers touched an older, softer fabric than before. It was a light gray shirt, printed with the words _AIR FORCE ACADEMY_ in crackling navy-blue ink. And there beside it, at the end of the narrow closet, was an olive drab flight suit. She ran her fingers across the coarse material in awe until her touch wandered over a haphazard line of stitches running down the back. She stroked it gently, her gaze drifting downward to the frayed leg cuffs. Her eyes widened as she saw the barrel of a gun poking up out of the mess on the floor and leaning against the wall. Kneeling, she dug through the dirty clothes and pulled out the battered Kalashnikov. She ran her hand over the weapon, from the grimy metal to the smooth grip. She felt a little row of lines carved into the wood and carefully traced them with her finger.

Tally marks.

Thirteen.

She quickly set the rifle down and stood, glancing over her shoulder at the older woman lying sprawled out in the middle of the bed. What a brutal, charming creature she was. How many more secrets did she have, just waiting to be uncovered? Lorna sighed and paced around to the other side of the bed. Those mysteries would be taken to her grave, it seemed. How cruel it was, to leave a poor girl wondering!

Lorna slowly crawled atop the mattress and curled up at the mad brute's side, resting her head where her firm shoulder connected with her broad chest. Her slender fingers traced down her neck to the collar of her shirt, and she began to slip the buttons from their loops. She was welcomed by the bruises and bitemarks she knew very well, now looking more purplish-brown than the last time she had seen them, and the faded bluish tattoos broken by bullet holes. Unbuttoning the last few buttons, she found plastic bag resting on the woman's belly. Lorna shifted it just enough so that the label laid in a moonbeam. _Morphine Sulfate – IV USE ONLY_, it read.

Oh, what a clever, conniving woman. Lorna lifted the IV bag, revealing the image of a gallows pole on the skin of Beatrice's stomach. The woman twitched.

"Hrrmph… Huh, hwah..? Hey- what're you…" She picked her heavy head up off the pillow. "Who..? What the hell..?"

"Shh, it's alright, I won't hurt you," Lorna murmured, her pale blue eyes staring down at Beatrice with a twisted fondness. She gently stroked across her lap and slipped her hand into the pocket of her jeans, pulling out a needle. She stuck it into the bag and drew out some of the fluid. "I won't hurt you."

"Hey, wait a minute-" Beatrice moved to push herself up as the needle slid into her forearm. She slowly slipped back down as the fluid warmed her veins. Her eyelids drooped, and she stared up into the pale blue eyes looming over her. The girl laid beside her, wrapping her slender arms around her muscle-packed frame, dipping her head into the nook of her neck and breathing in her scent.

"I won't hurt you."

Beatrice's breathing grew deep and slow. Closing her eyes, she laced her hands atop the girl's back.

"You won't hurt anymore."

Beatrice slipped away.

* * *

The combat boots strode across the hot pavement, and hot gusts of air and sand whooshed around the helmet. She stood before the F-16, and the old dog padded up alongside her and ran excited little laps around her long legs. She knelt down to pet his head and scratch behind his ears, and he stared up at her with his tongue dangling out of his mouth. She couldn't remember his name.

"Go back inside," she said, her knees surprisingly limber as she stood upright again, "it's not safe for you out here." The dog scampered out of view.

She looked back up to the fighter jet, a bright beam of sunlight glinting off the open canopy. Her chest suddenly grew heavy and tight, the burning desert air wheezing through her lungs. Bowing her head, she fitted her oxygen mask over her nose and mouth, and when she looked up again, her visor was filled with miles of pale blue sky. She gazed out through the cockpit into the peaceful nothingness. Her muscles relaxed and cool blood floated all throughout her. Gently easing the stick into a turn, gravity made itself scarce. The ground became the sky and back again as the jet rolled lazily through the air. She eased a little deeper into the pilot's seat, and there was no pressure, and there was no pain.

A faint buzzing sound drifted into her ears. She glanced to the spot where the radio ought to be, but it became lost in the array of switches and buttons and displays that she once knew like the back of her hand. The buzz shifted to a sharp crackle, and garbled voices spewed from the radio as deafening alarm beeps pulsed through the cockpit.

_"SAM lock… BB… Break right..!"_

The pilot glanced over her shoulder to see a thin trail of smoke crossing in front of the sun. Her rapid huffs of breath echoed through the mask as her shaking hand jerked the stick to the right. The jet made a sharp turn and she felt the forces of gravity coil around her, crushing her large frame and squeezing the air from her chest.

_"BB, are you there? Status..!"_

The pilot set her jaw, her sharp intakes of air stabbing at her lungs. The Fighting Falcon's engine roared as she cut across the sky.

_"Break! Break!"_ The radio transmission fizzled out into a blanket of static.

She rammed the stick forward and the jet's nose dipped. _"Aaaagh, God!"_ she cried as she barreled towards the earth, her stomach leaping up into her throat.

_"Altitude… Altitude… Altitude…"_ the monotone warning repeated.

The pilot pulled the jet back up, and in her fading periphery, she saw the surface-to-air missile hit the ground and throw up a great burst of sand, flame and smoke. She clenched the control stick, her face hardening and her muscles tensing as the F-16 climbed through the air. She leveled out the jet, closed her eyes, and waited. The radio crackled, but the words that came out were crystal clear: _"Another SAM launch, southwest!"_

The haunting warning ended with a sharp pop of static. She opened her eyes, and a deep, gentle lull floated through the light crackling: _"BB… Obey me… BB… Obey me… BB… Obey me…"_

She let go of the controller as the words repeated again and again, and the Viper sailed through the sun. Fuzzy, distorted images flashed through the fluorescent green light of the head-up display. She stared deeply, and mutilated figures began to take form in the beams – decapitated and eviscerated bodies drenched in blood, slumped over counters and sprawled across dusty floors. The radar chirped and the alarms sounded, but the soothing voice remained. _"Obey me… Obey me… Obey me…"_

A thundering sound blasted through the pilot's head as her body jerked forward against the harness. Black smoke spiraled all around the canopy as the jet dived nose-first on the long way down from the heavens. As the ground grew nearer, red hell swirled in the pilot's eyes. She rocked the stick back and forth in desperation, and the ground grew nearer still. The ringing faded from her ears and twisted screaming cut through the alarms.

_"AL-UZZA! AL-UZZA! ALSHAYTAN AL'AMRIKIU!"_

She took a deep breath and yanked on the ejection handle, staring for a few seconds at the detached yellow cord in her grip as she remained firmly seated in the cockpit. Gritting her teeth, she awaited the outburst from her lips:

_"Son of a-!"_

* * *

There was a heavy pounding at the door. Beatrice awoke with a start, gasping for air with beads of sweat on her forehead and her arms wrapped tight around the skinny woman at her side. Shoving her away, she sat up in bed and dragged her hands down her face, rubbing her eyes. "Where… where the hell did you come from? How did you get here?"

The girl folded her arms and shrank away from Beatrice. "Ah, I- I…"

"_'I- I- I' _what?' Spit it out!" Beatrice said, reaching over her and turning on the lamp at the nightstand. Her eyes widened at the sight of the pale woman with the blue irises and the deep eyebags and the stringy hair and nice clothes. "Wait, _you?_" She got up and stepped back from the bed. Looking down, she realized her floral-print shirt was unbuttoned. She sighed and placed her hands on her hips. "Jiminy Christmas, what did I do this time…"

The knocking grew louder. Frowning, Beatrice dragged her hand down her face again with a groan. She balled her fists at her sides and began to head out of the bedroom. She lingered at the doorframe, looking over her shoulder and pointing a rigid finger at Lorna. "Stay here."

"Wait," Lorna said, her voice wavering, "don't answer it," but Beatrice had already left the room.

She stumbled down the hall, half conscious, a gust of desert wind blowing through her smoldering brain. Wading through the trash of the living room, she flicked on the light, rubbed her eyes, and opened the door a crack. There was a tall man in a leather mask standing there, basking in the dim, flickering hallway light. Beatrice moved to shut the door, but he jammed the toe of his cowboy boot in the opening.

"Hold on there, miss," he said, "I'm offering goods and services that I believe ya might just be in the market for."

Beatrice had to look up to meet the black holes of his eyes, something she wasn't used to. She didn't like it. "Go away, man. You're freakin' me out."

"You look like you could stand to relax a little," he said, reaching into his pocket. Beatrice's grip on the doorknob tensed, and Fred strained to push it open a little wider with his other hand. He pulled out the little baggie of heroin. "Now, this here is some gen-yoo-wine, bonafide blow, straight from the opium fields of Afghanistan, pure as the driven snow. And I'm sure you'll find my prices beyond reasonable."

She stared down at the white powder, an itch working its way up her veins. She ran her fingers through her hairline to the back of her scalp, tugging on the red locks before resting her hand on the doorframe. "Is this… is this some kinda prank or something?"

"No jokes, ma'am. Just good ol' fashioned wholesome door-to-door salesmanship."

"I'm not interested; ain't nothin' good ever come outta Afghanistan. Get lost."

"Alright, I don't mind doin' this the hard way." He tossed the baggie away and whipped out his switchblade. Beatrice rammed her shoulder against the door with all her weight and was sent stumbling backward when the larger man kicked it open. Flipping the knife in his hand, he stepped into the apartment with an upward swing. The tip of the blade caught against her cheek and sliced up into her left eyebrow. She held her bleeding face in her hand before glancing up at the glint of the switchblade in the air. Fred reached out and yanked at a handful of her hair as he drove the knife downward. Beatrice's bloodied hand caught his wrist and struggled to hold him back, the shaking blade inching closer to her throat. With hunted eyes, she looked into her attacker's inhuman face, shrouded in black.

She broke out in a cold sweat as nausea and adrenaline swirled around in her gut. Fred plowed his fist into it and vomit spewed from her mouth and splattered against his jacket. He looked down and huffed in disgust, his rage bound and simmering beneath the mask. Rearing back, he cracked his knuckles against her face. He struck her again and again, bruising her eye and busting her lip. Her strength failing, Beatrice grabbed at Fred's knife-wielding arm with her other hand, blood dripping from her nose as she bowed her head.

He wrestled against her grip for a moment, grunting in frustration. Unable to break it, he placed his hand on her shoulder and drove his knee upward between her legs. Beatrice doubled over, clinging to his wrist for dear life, heaving as she panted.

Fred's gaze drifted past the crumpled woman's form to the hallway, where he saw the pale girl hovering at the edge of the shadows, a timid look on her gaunt face and an AK-47 held low in her hands. He froze. "…Lorna?"

Beatrice's right hand slipped from Fred's arm and shot up under the horse's muzzle into his jaw. He stumbled back, stunned, his hands floating downward as the knife slipped from his fingers. Lorna called Beatrice's name and she turned, reaching out just in time to catch the rifle.

Fred shook his head, his dizzied vision coming back into focus to see the redhead holding the weapon at her hip. He stared down the barrel for a long second before turning heel and scrambling out the door. Beatrice shouldered the rifle, watched him sprint down the hallway, and pulled the trigger. The Kalashnikov gave an empty click, and she lowered it to see that the magazine had been removed. Slowly, breathing hard, she smeared away the blood from her nostrils with the back of her hand and flicked the droplets to the carpet. She dragged her feet to the door and pushed it shut, thumb-turning the deadbolt and sliding the chain lock into place.

She looked over her shoulder at the girl standing mannequin-still in the hall. Holding up the rifle, she approached her, pointing to the empty magazine well. "You tryna get me killed?"

"N-no, I was just-"

Beatrice stepped closer to Lorna, and the smaller woman backed deeper into the shadows. "You're one of them, aren't you?"

"W-what?"

"You break into my apartment, drug me, go through my things…" She dropped the gun and kept walking. "…And when another degenerate in a mask shows up here and tries to kill me, it's just a coincidence that he knows you by name, huh?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know him, I swear! I didn't mean you any harm, I just-"

Beatrice reached out and snatched Lorna by the throat. She shoved her against the wall, wringing a gasp from her lips. A trickle of blood dripped from her furrowed brow into her green eye. "You better tell me what's goin' on real quick, whore."

Beatrice's rage was a beautiful thing, but being on the receiving end of it made Lorna feel sick inside. Tears welled up in her eyes. "Please don't hurt me, please, I'm so sorry..."

The back of the older woman's hand struck her cheek. "Shut up!" Reaching down into her pocket, she fished out the folded $100-and-change and held it up in front of the girl's reddened, weeping face. "Is this what you want? Take it!" Tossing the money at her, Beatrice unwrapped her fingers from the girl's throat and stepped back, holding her arms out at her sides. "Either kill me and get it over with or leave me the hell alone!"

Lorna held her cheek in her hand, shuddering gently as she smeared the dripping mascara. Through the shadows of the hallway, she saw deep pain and rage eating away at the woman standing before her, with her shirt hanging open and bruises as numerous as her freckles dotted all over her body. Lorna placed her hand over her mouth. With a few cautious steps, she approached Beatrice and wrapped her slender arms around her, and the older woman lowered her arms and tilted her head down. The younger girl pressed the side of her face against Beatrice's chest, slicking the little drips of blood across the bare skin. After a moment of hesitation, she felt Beatrice's heavy arms resting on her shoulders, her big hands laced in the middle of her back.

The older woman gave a shaky sigh and leaned against the wall, pulling the girl in close. She rested her chin on the crown of Lorna's head. "What do you want from me, kiddo?"

Lorna wanted many things from her. She pulled back, reaching up with feather-light fingers to stroke Beatrice's jaw. "I only want good things for you. I want to tell you everything... And I want to fix your face."

* * *

Beatrice sat on the lid of the toilet and Lorna turned off the sink, stepping carefully around the old needles lining the black-grouted tile floor to dab a wet washcloth against her face. "…I know a lot of people in ways that… aren't exactly personal," Lorna said, the rag turning red as she spoke. "He might have been one of them. You're one of them, too, for different reasons… But I want that to change."

"And why's that?"

"You fascinate me." She set the washcloth in the basin and took Beatrice's left hand, guiding it beneath the faucet and running warm water over the dried blood in her palm. She massaged it gently with her thumbs, working her way out to her long, calloused fingers, scrubbing away the scabs caked under her fingernails. "I can't seem to keep you out of my mind, after you saved my life."

"You saved mine too, so we're even now."

Lorna giggled, taking a towel from the edge of the counter and drying her hand. "I take it that you're not too upset about me going through your things?"

Beatrice stared at Lorna, her face becoming cold and serious. "That gun has seen things you'd never believe."

The girl opened the mirror and looked around in the medicine cabinet. "I'd believe them if you told me."

"No, I… I don't tell anyone that story." She looked away.

"No one?" Lorna sat herself up on the counter, a box of bandages in her hand. "Based on all the things you've done in these past few days, I'm certain I have at least a pretty good idea. Look at me." The older woman turned her head and Lorna smiled at her, awkwardly sticking a band-aid over the cut on her eyebrow.

Beatrice blinked a couple times. "I'm startin' to question the things you find fascinating."

"I suppose we're both not quite as we seem."

She gave a low _humm_. "That reminds me: that thing you said earlier, 'bout _knowing_ lots of people… You shouldn't do that to yourself." Beatrice took the pack of cigarettes from the pocket, placing one in her mouth and offering one to Lorna.

Lorna was about to place another bandage on her cheek, but stopped, pulling back her hovering hands. She took it and pulled a lighter from her sweater, sparking them both.

"Thanks." The older woman closed her eyes and inhaled, then looked back to Lorna as the smoke streamed from her nose and mouth. "Anyway, I mean… a lotta those people are bad news, like that one freak," she said, motioning aside with her cigarette. "And me too, I guess. Point is, you don't need any of that in your life, y'know? Just think about how your aunt would feel if somethin' happened to ya."

Lorna stared into the reddened sink as she puffed on her cigarette, the smoke curling upwards to mingle with the greenish light from the dim incandescent bulbs.

"I just know what it's like, to be young and to do things just because they feel good. But keep that up for a while and next thing you know, you end up being a wasted bum with no money, no friends, and four bullets in your chest…" Beatrice coughed, her brow creasing as she stood up. "Anyway, I guess things have been heavy enough tonight, huh?"

Lorna stared at herself in the mirror, her hair becoming stringier and her eyebags growing darker in the grimy reflection. Or maybe she always looked that way. "No, it's… It's fine."

"Let me walk you home before you're missed. Do you live close?"

"It's _fine_," Lorna said, hopping down from the counter, looking up to see Beatrice shifting her brow. "I mean… Let me stay here tonight, please? It's safer that way." She wrapped her arms around herself. "And it's cold out."

"Hmm… Wouldn't your aunt get worried, if she wakes up and you're not there?"

"I'm grown, I can go where I want." She reached out to stroke the taller woman's crossed arm. "I just want to know you're safe."

Beatrice exhaled through her nose, smirking a little. "_I_ will be fine, it's _you_ who needs to be safe. But… alright."

"Thank you," Lorna said, giving her a brief hug.

Beatrice pushed her back and held a hand on her shoulder, turning her chin with the other. "Hold on, you, uh, got somethin' there." She licked her thumb and wiped away a few smudges of dried blood from her face.

Lorna gave a slow, appreciative blink and stepped out of the bathroom. Beatrice lingered in the doorway, stretching out her arms and resting her hands on the frame. "Well, the bedroom's down that way," she said, nodding to her left, "but I guess you already knew that. Or you can have the couch. Neither is too comfortable." She rubbed the back of her neck. "And, uh… If you see any funny stains, they didn't come from me."

"I was thinking… I'd feel a little more secure if we were… close."

"Either way, I'd be just down the hall."

The girl stared at her for a moment, her eyes darting back and forth across the older woman's unchanging face. "…Right. Well, goodnight Beatrice."

"Night." Her head turned to watch the young woman walk down the hall toward the living room. "If you need anything, you know where to find me, but try not to need anything because I'm tired as hell." Beatrice turned out the bathroom light, shambled to her bedroom, and shut the door behind her.

Lorna stared for a moment and blinked before turning her gaze to the living room. Beatrice was wrong; the place was comfortable as could be, only Lorna didn't feel much like sleeping. She nudged over a Styrofoam box with her foot and a large roach scuttled out from beneath it.

Maybe the apartment could just use a little freshening up.

* * *

Beatrice rolled over in bed and winced as her stinging cheek made contact with the pillow. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, and gave the wound a tentative poke. A few crumbles of dried blood came off on her fingers. She smoothed her peeling band-aids and glanced to the old digital clock on the nightstand, its digits obscured by an ashtray. She pushed it aside. It was 1:36 p.m.

She dragged herself from her tangle of sheets, frowning as she looked around her bedroom. She couldn't place why, but it seemed emptier than usual. The soft, frayed legs of the threadbare flannel pants she managed to change into before passing out swished as she walked to the door. She opened it and the smell of bleach immediately washed over her, stinging her sore nose. As she approached the bathroom, the odor sharpened and a dull ache pulsed through her head.

She flicked on the light, and the skeletons on the church flier taped to the mirror caught her eye. Pulling it off, she saw a note scrawled below the illustration in dainty handwriting – _Meet me here tomorrow at 7_.

The girl was gone already, then. She folded the flier and stuck it in her pocket, resting her hands on the clean white counter and staring at her reflection. A woman with a black eye and a fair handful of scattered gray hairs stared back at her. Her strong shoulders were slouched, her broad chest was broken. And now she was alone again. Beatrice sighed, dipping her head down and peeling back the tape from one the wounds in her chest. Slowing her breathing and gritting her teeth, she pulled the stained wad of gauze from where it was tucked beside her heart and tossed the old dressing into the empty trash can by the toilet. She opened the medicine cabinet, grabbing out a box of gauze, a roll of tape, and a little pair of scissors. Cutting a strip of gauze, she wet it under the faucet, poked it into the hole, and sealed it with a piece of tape.

She looked disdainfully at the three other wounds. Splashing a handful of water in her face, she lazily scratched under her arms, trying to find the motivation to finish changing her dressings. Drips of water fell from her jaw to the noose on her stomach, leaving tiny trails as they ran to her waistband. Her hand slid down to her forearm, itching at the scabs and bruises dotted over her veins as her guts twisted. Her eyes widened.

Her morphine.

She stumbled into the doorway and the wall as she sprinted back to her bedroom. "Oh God, Oh God…" Frantic, she nearly threw the drawer out of the nightstand, swiping her hand through the assorted junk. She tugged at her hair as she paced around to the other side of the room, ripping the sheets and pillows from her bed and tossing them against the wall. Nothing. She turned and threw open the closet door, and she was greeted by the sight of her shirts on hangers and her jeans folded in a neat pile on the floor. Beatrice breathed heavily, leaning with her hand against the doorframe, staring down at her gun propped up against the wall with her old combat boots beside it.

She was tired, she was hurting, she was alone, and the whore stole her only fix.

Sighing, she dragged herself down the hall to the living room, stepping on a faded blood stain as she slumped into the couch, its old pillows fluffed and positioned with care. She propped her elbow on the armrest and rubbed her temple, eyes closed. Everything was so empty now.

When she opened her eyes again, she saw the tall blue can sitting on the table. A needle and an open switchblade lay crossed in front of it. Leaning forward, she took the knife and stared at the streaks and specks of her blood on its edge. As she replayed the memory from the night before, her mind's eye fixated on the little baggie of white powder in the man's hand. She knew she was living in a bad town when she couldn't even trust the heroin anymore. Maybe she should've just bought it anyway and gotten it all over with.

She pushed the switchblade closed with her finger.

* * *

_"You may not like the things we do, only idiots ignore the truth! It's easy to lay down and hide, there's a warrior without his pride..!"_

The bell above the door jingled and the clerk looked up from the radio. He turned down the volume and cracked a grin at the dazed woman in the aviator shades and the flannel pants tucked into her combat boots. "Hey, how ya doin'?"

She mumbled something that sounded vaguely like a "hey" and headed straight to the coolers at the back of the store, leaning against the flimsy plastic shelves and racks all the way. A minute later, she came back with her arms full with cans of Monster and three bottles of Pepto-Bismol. She stood in front of the cashier and dumped the cans onto the countertop.

"Wow, I really got you into those, huh?" Greg said as he began to pick up the cans and scan them one by one.

Beatrice ran a hand slowly back through her scalp. "I really just need some caffeine or something," she said.

"Been there, felt that, ma'am."

The redhead tapped the toe of her boot to the quiet song playing on the radio. She listened a little harder, trying to tune out the repetitive beeping of the scanner.

_"It's easy to lay down and hide, there's a warrior without his pride! You may not like the things we say, what's the difference anyway?"_

She glanced up from the floor to the tall, pudgy, slightly stubbly and zit-faced teen behind the counter. Squinting her eyes, she read his name tag. "Say, uh… _Greg_, you don't have a brother named Wirt, do you?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Uh…" Beatrice crossed her arms. "I, um, talked to him yesterday. He told me to tell you he said hi."

"That's nice," he said, tucking the last can into the plastic bag. "Maybe one of these days that brother o' mine will stop by and say it himself." He smiled, but the tone of his words betrayed him. "That'll be $33.67."

She dug into her pocket for her wallet. "Yeesh, those things don't come cheap, do they?" Opening her wallet, she handed him two 20-dollar bills. As he reached into the register drawer for her change, she clutched at her stomach through the thin fabric of her black t-shirt, sweat beading up on her forehead as she stifled a groan.

"You okay, ma'am?"

Her insides turned to liquid, swirling around as they climbed up into the back of her throat. She swallowed, but the feeling remained. Deep, deep pain sank through her guts, and coldness washed over her face to the palms of her hands. "I'm fine," she breathed, reaching into the bag and digging through the cans. She pulled out one of the bottles of Pepto-Bismol and cracked it open. She took several long gulps, the bubblegum-pink liquid streaming out the corner of her mouth and dripping down her chin. "Ahh," she sighed, screwing the lid back on tight and grabbing the bag. "Y'know what? Keep the change."

"You sure?"

"I'm supporting local business," she said, heading for the doors. As she reached for the glass, she heard light footsteps behind her and a nasally croak.

"Hey, wait a minute!"

"What? I paid for these!"

"No, look, you gotta see this." Beatrice turned and looked down to see a small, gangly man with big hair holding a newspaper in her face. The main headline was about the events at the hospital the day before.

"Yeah, I know, I was there. Can I go now?"

"Read this part," Jason said, tapping on a paragraph towards the end of the article.

She leaned in, lowering her shades and squinting her eyes, mumbling the words under her breath. "_Veteran n' hero,' _hmph… _'Recovering from injuries… gunmen entered hospital…'"_ She straightened out, her brow shifting. Jason stared into her black eye, and she pushed the sunglasses back up the bridge of her nose. "_'Caught in the crossfire and shot dead..?_' Well, that's a load of bull."

"It's more than that," he said, folding the paper and tucking it under his arm. "This might sound _craaazy,_ but… I think someone wants you dead."

Her face became hard and she turned her back to him. "If you find out who it is, tell them to try harder." The bell above the door jingled again as she stepped out into the parking lot, crushing the wisping dead weeds beneath the soles of her combat boots as she walked. The woman stumbled to a stop, doubling over and splattering bright pink vomit against the faded black asphalt. She wiped her mouth with her hand, pausing for a moment before grabbing her stomach and sprinting down the street. Jason glanced to the cashier, who only shrugged and turned the radio back up, sitting with his chin in his hands.

Radio interference crackled in as the song trailed off. _"It makes me proud, so proud of you, I see innocence shining through…"_

* * *

Mr. Forrester slouched in his creaking wooden chair, his hand resting on the desk as he slowly twirled his fountain pen through his stiff fingers. He closed his eyes, creases settling on his forehead and between his bushy gray brows. The deep, sickeningly mellow voice of his client drifted through the fuzzy courtroom speakers.

_"Yes, I think we ought to clear a little space on the property… The owners let it go for so long, it's shameful. Yes, yes… Weeds, ivy… The grass is so tall I'm certain a snake would jump out and bite you if you weren't careful. Of course, that can be taken care of – I have ways of making such nasty creatures obey me, you know. But I think the trees deserve the most attention. Wayward saplings, still young and small, but green and spry…"_

Mr. Forrester grit his teeth, his hard gaze shifting up to the tall man on the stand. His all-black ensemble was broken only by the pocked white marble of his face. He stared into the ceiling light, smiling for a moment before bringing his hand to his jaw to smooth his thin, short beard. His expression vanished and he lowered his hand, lacing his fingers as he angled his head down to pierce Mr. Forrester with a pale, cold stare.

_"…We'll handle them the usual way. Cutting and burning."_

The recording stopped, and the prosecutor stood before Mr. Edelwood at the stand. In the quiet room, Mr. Forrester could hear the smooth metal of his pen gliding against his calloused fingertips. He set it down and rested his hands in his lap.

The padded shoulders of the prosecutor's large suit jacket jutted as he crossed his arms behind his back. "What do you do, Mr. Edelwood?"

"I own a landscaping business."

"Is your business successful?"

"I would like to think so, yes."

"And the recording that the court just heard – was that a business call, Mr. Edelwood?"

"Yes."

"Can you tell us about the property you were discussing?"

"Certainly. It was a yard on the far side of town, belonging to a widow."

The prosecutor faced the jury. "The phone call the court heard a moment ago was made on Sunday, October 22, 2017, at 1:36 a.m. Now, Mr. Edelwood…" He glanced over his shoulder. "…Why were you making a business call so late at night?"

The man in black was quiet. "I have terrible insomnia," he said, "and I suppose the thought of such a daunting job was keeping me up."

"Right. And according to your financial records, you had a rather large expense the day just before this phone call," the state's attorney said, adjusting his glasses as he picked up a document from his table and thumbed through it, "amounting to $65,000. What was this money used for?"

Mr. Edelwood tilted his head, glancing to Mr. Forrester. His attorney nodded. "I was planning a party," he said, straightening his spine and broadening his shoulders in a subtle, fluid motion. There were murmurs in the courtroom.

"Did this party take place on Halloween?"

"Correct."

"I would like to remind the jury that _five_ children went missing during the week leading up to the 31st. And $65,000 is a lot of money for just hosting a little get-together..." The prosecutor paced a few steps before stopping and turning to the stand, white light glinting off of his round glasses and silver hair as he stared into the defendant's burning eyes. "What was _really_ going on with that property, Mr. Edelwood? What were you _really_ doing with those 'trees'?"

"Objection!" Mr. Forrester stood, scowling from more than just the pain in his knees. "Argumentative."

"Sustained," said the judge. "Control yourself, Mr. Langtree."

The prosecutor pursed his lips, shrinking into his jacket. "So your company cleared saplings out of a widow's yard, and a week later you had a $65,000 Halloween party." He sighed and walked back to his seat, arms crossed behind his back. "No further questions."

Mr. Forrester clenched his shaking fists as watched the state's attorney sit down, wanting nothing more than to wring the incompetent coward's neck. Uncapping his fountain pen, he pressed the nib into his fingertip and twisted until ink mingled with blood.

* * *

The newspaper laid spread out over the scratched antique coffee table. _"Correction,"_ it read, _"yesterday's paper erroneously stated that Beatrice Lynch was killed in the shooting at the Our Lady of Benevolence Hospital. Lynch (right) is alive and well, and was discharged from the hospital without incident. We apologize for the mistake."_ Beside the text was a grainy photo of the floral-printed brute with her middle fingers extended. Adelaide took a final drag from her cigarette and extinguished it against Beatrice's head, burning through the paper and leaving a black pockmark on the mahogany.

She picked up the phone from the end table, reclining in the couch as she punched in the number. The call went straight to voicemail. She briefly slammed the handset down before dialing the number again, sighing as the ringing tone soon cut to the familiar recording of Fred's voice – _"Stop callin' me"_ – followed by a beep. Massaging her creased brow with her fingers, she held the handset close to her thin lips and snarled into the mouthpiece: "Fred. Call me. Now."

Slowly, her hand shaking, she hung up the phone and reached into the carton on the end table. She felt around inside until her fingers rested on the last two cigarettes tucked into the corner. Taking one out, she lit it and closed her eyes as she took a long drag. A plume of smoke streamed out of her mouth and rose up into the stale air of the dusty living room.

* * *

Smoke streamed out of the window of the black '78 Mustang as it barreled down the street. Fred took another crackling hit from the grimy glass tube and chucked over his shoulder. He heard a distant shattering as his pupils dilated. He tugged the leather back down over his face, and smoke huffed through the horse's nostrils and eyeholes.

The wailing of a siren drifted over the engine's rumble and into his ears. Shooting a look into the crooked rearview mirror, flashing red-and-blue lights filled his eyes. Maybe it was one of Mr. Edelwood's boys. Maybe they could help him sort out this mess. He swerved to the side of the road and the police car rolled up behind him.

The officer stepped up beside his open window. "License and registra…" She stopped when she saw the leather horse head staring back at her. Memories flashed in the deep, empty holes of his eyes; the skulls of the three gunmen as they lay bleeding out on the linoleum, the dripping ski mask gripped in a knobby-knuckled hand. She blinked. "Sir, I need you to take that mask off."

The man in the driver's seat didn't move.

"I'm not going to ask you again," Officer Jones said, reaching for her gun, "take the mask o-"

Fred slammed the Mustang into gear and hammered his boot against the gas pedal, and Officer Jones was left in a cloud of dust as the black muscle car shot off down the street. Sprinting back to her police cruiser, she threw herself into the seat and grabbed the radio's microphone. "Unit 3136 to Dispatch."

The radio crackled. "3136, go ahead."

"Got a Code 5 for a 10-80 on South Warsaw Boulevard; suspect is a white male of a large build, wearing a… horse mask… and driving a black muscle car."

There was a pause. After a moment, there came a low response from the dispatcher. "Don't worry about it."

"…10-9?"

"I said, don't worry about it. It's getting late, Jones. Don't you want to go home and get some rest?"

"_What?_ Did you not hear what I just said? I need backup!"

"You will _not_ pursue that suspect, Jones. You _will_ return to the station. That's an order."

She watched the Mustang's tail lights shrink away into the distance. "…10-4," she said, setting the mic back in its place. Then she flicked on the cruiser's sirens and lights, hit the gas, and sped down the boulevard.

Glancing to the rearview mirror, Fred saw the police car coming up hot on his tail. Depressing the clutch, he yanked back on the e-break and skidded into a sharp turn down the next street. Officer Jones' cruiser closely followed. Through the roaring of the engines and the howling of the siren, Fred could hear the echo of his heartbeat inside his leather cage. He saw another set of flashing lights emerging on his right, soon leaving his periphery as he flew down the street.

The police car swerved out of the intersection and skidded to a stop in front of Officer Jones' cruiser. She slammed the breaks, pulling the e-break as she turned sideways, coming to rest just inches away from the interceptor. Gasping for breath, she stared wide-eyed into the dark tinted windows. With a shaking hand, she reached out and flicked off the siren.

"OFFICER JONES, YOU ARE TO REPORT TO THE STATION IMMEDIATELY," a voice boomed over the loudspeaker. "THAT IS AN ORDER. YOU WILL OBEY."

She bowed her head, the flashing red-and-blue lights casting hard shadows into her eye sockets. The squad car pulled away and she slowly followed.

* * *

"Officer Jones, do you know what this is?"

White light glinted off of the plastic bag dangling from the police chief's fingers. Sitting at the bottom of it was a snub-nosed .45 revolver.

She could feel herself shrinking into her chair. She sat up a little taller. "Yes, sir."

"Tell me, then, since you're so smart."

"It's one of the weapons used in the hospital shooting, sir."

"Right," he said, dropping the bag with a _thump_ onto the desk. "But that's not all. You're not as smart as you think you are, Jones. You know why?"

She gritted her teeth. "Why is that, sir?"

"You don't recognize this weapon as well as you ought to. The serial number on this gun matches the one from your apartment."

She stared down at the gun, blood running cold as she slowly looked up to meet the police chief's eyes. "I- I already told you it was stolen, sir, I filed a report on it right after-"

"And look at what good that did," he said. "Four dead and six injured, all because of your gross negligence."

"Wait, I can explain-"

"I don't want to hear your excuses, Jones! Do you have any idea how bad it looks when one of our officers of the law can't handle her own guns in her own home? I'll tell you, Jones: it looks…" He clenched his shaking fist, running a hand through his slick blond hair. "…bad. It looks _real_ bad. This little blunder has dragged down the reputation of our entire police department. We'll be lucky if anyone takes our position of authority seriously after this."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"Enough. I don't care," he said, leaning forward. "I'm letting you go."

"What? No, wait, please, I can-"

"Get out of here and don't come back," he said, swiveling his chair around and motioning towards the door.

Sara drew in a shaky breath, her heart sinking. "Sir, please…"

He snapped his fingers. "Go. Now."

She stood, watching him stroke the hairs of his mustache with fire in her eyes. Removing her badge and pulling her Glock from its holster, she set them on the desk and left the office.

* * *

A half-empty six pack sat on the carpet by the couch, and a bottle of lukewarm beer hung loosely from Wirt's thin fingers. He raised the bottle to his whiskered lips and took a tiny sip, his dark, stinging eyes glazed over and his heart heavy in his scrawny chest. He heard the door unlock and the beer slipped from his hand.

Sara stepped into the apartment, her downtrodden expression replaced by a scrutinizing cocked eyebrow as she glanced across the room to the small man on the couch. "Since when do you drink beer?" she asked, shutting the door behind her and locking it. "Oh, wait. Nevermind."

"Sara, I told you, I'm _sorry_. I only went out because Beatrice wanted me to, and I didn't even _do_ anything."

"And I told _you_ that you're allowed to do things without me. I'm over it, Wirt."

Wirt rolled onto his back and took a deep, shaky breath, holding his hands over his eyes. "I thought you weren't coming back," he choked out.

"Wirt…" She sat down on the armrest of the couch and ran her fingers through his hair. It was greasy and disheveled. She sighed. "Look. I need to tell you something."

He sat up a little and looked over his shoulder. "What?"

"I got fired."

He searched the wall behind her for his words. Settling back into place, he stared off into the off-white expanse above the couch. "Well, maybe… Maybe that's a good thing."

"How could it possibly-"

"Sara, it's _dangerous_ out there. This world… it isn't safe anymore, Sara, and I worry about you so much every day. Every morning, when I watch you put on your uniform, I can't help but think…" He wiped his eyes with his hand, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I can't help but think if this'll be the day you don't come home in the evening. All these shootings…"

"Are you kidding me right now, Wirt? I've been in the force since we graduated _high school_, I- I've been working so hard to try to make this city _safer_ and you really think… You think that doesn't mean anything because you're afraid?"

"No!" Wirt's haunted, wide-eyed gaze bored into her, and the whiskers around his lips quivered. "S-Sara, listen, we haven't had any time just for us in years, i-it's been so long since I got a chance to show you how much I care, I… You'll never have to work again, babe, I'll work two jobs, I'll work _ten_ jobs, I just want you home safe, I just want to have you…"

"Wirt," she said through clenched teeth, "this isn't all about you."

"Wh-_what?"_ He blinked, his gaze darting across her face. "How can you say that? _Everything_ is about you, you're all I _think_ about! I'm trying to make it up to you for how terrible I've been, why won't you let me-"

"You didn't even ask me why I got fired, Wirt! Tonight was completely insane, and you're expecting me to come home and coddle you after I've been humiliated? You expect me to just get over it and sit at home all day for you because you feel guilty?" She stood up, snatching one of the beers from the six pack and twisting off the lid. She tipped it back, drinking half the bottle in one pull before wiping her lips and pointing at Wirt. "None of this would've happened if you didn't go out with that dyke junkie!"

The apartment was suddenly quiet, and as Wirt and Sara stared at each other, they could hear footsteps through the ceiling and the dryer running through the floor.

Sara held her hand over her mouth. "Wirt, I- I didn't mean that-"

Wirt slowly sat up. "What do you mean it 'wouldn't have happened'?"

She stepped closer to him. "It wasn't your fault, I didn't mean to say that, I was just-"

"I thought you said you were over it," he said, crossing his bony arms and looking away.

Setting the beer on the coffee table, she knelt in front of him and placed her hand on his knee. "Wirt… Look at me."

He turned his head. Two pools of water rested at the edges of his eyelids.

Sara ran her hand up and down his thigh. "It's sweet that you worry about me, it really is, but you have got to get a grip. You gotta be strong for me, Wirt. I know you can."

"No, I can't," he said.

She cupped his jaw in her hand, stroking her thumb over his cheek. "You want to make it up to me, right? Show me you mean it and pull yourself together for me. Please?"

Wirt sighed and leaned into her touch. "Okay." He closed his eyes for a moment, lacing his fingers atop hers. He slowly looked up at her. "Are you going to try and get your job back?" he asked, his voice soft.

She stared into his eyes and blinked. "No," she said. "I just want answers."

_"Thank God,"_ he whispered, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and pulling her into his chest. He buried his face in the nook of her neck, and she rested her chin on his shoulder.

As Sara stroked over the ridges of his spine with her fingers, she stared into the empty white wall. She saw Wirt lying there curled up on the floor of the bar, she saw sprays of blood and masked faces, she saw the broken woman in her hospital gown sitting there on the cold linoleum tiles with eyes that looked like they had seen everything and nothing at the same time. Answers. All she wanted were answers. And that woman had to know something about all of this.

Sara sat back and held her hands on Wirt's narrow, sloped shoulders. "Let's go to bed," she said. Wirt nodded, and she took his hand as she stood, pulling him up with her. With his arm wrapped around her waist, the two walked together to the bedroom. Wirt flicked off the living room light as he shut the door, and the half-empty bottle of beer sat on the edge of the table in the dark.

* * *

A swirl of blood mingled with the bright pink liquid as Beatrice lowered the half-empty bottle from her gnawed lips and set it on the curb. Sitting in her stained robe, she dragged her fingers down her mouth, smearing the reddened Pepto-Bismol over the bile and spit dried on her chin. She rested her hand on her knee, curling her stiff fingers and staring with glassy, dilated eyes into the street. She felt pebbles digging into the soles of her feet through the holes in her dirty socks and didn't notice the pair of black boots approaching her from the sidewalk.

"Uh, hey… you."

Beatrice looked up slowly and blinked. Sara looked down at her, shifting her weight as she shoved her hands into the pockets of her bomber jacket. Her gaze dropped from the older woman's bruised, busted face to her torso, fully visible from the loosely-tied robe hanging open around her shoulders. Streaks of crusted blood ran from her pitted wounds across her chest and stomach. The redhead licked her teeth, sucked her lips, and spit to the sidewalk. "Are you gonna arrest me?" she asked slowly, her voice raspy.

"No, don't worry about it." Sara sat down on the curb beside her. Beatrice reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out a pack of American Spirit Blues, offering it to Sara. There were two cigarettes left. She took the one that wasn't upside down and Beatrice lit it for her, lighting her own shortly after. The two women sat together, wordlessly puffing on their cigarettes and watching the occasional car go by.

After a while, Sara turned her head and stared at Beatrice's black eye, creased and swollen half shut. Oblivious to her gaze, Beatrice lowered her cigarette to take a sip of the Pepto-Bismol, chilled by the brisk morning weather.

"Hey, so, uh… What happened to you?"

Beatrice glanced to the side, then closed her eyes as she downed the rest of the medicine and tapped the ashes of her cigarette into the empty bottle. "What?"

"I mean, what happened to your face? And, uh… all that," Sara said, pointing to the woman's bloodied, slightly flabby torso.

"Oh. Well, this, I did to myself," she said, looking down. "I was gonna change my dressings but I got… distracted." She flexed her fingers and, becoming suddenly conscious of the blood caked under her nails, wrapped her arms around herself, hiding her hands beneath her robe.

"That's how you get an infection," Sara said. "What did I tell you about letting your wounds heal?"

"Okay, _mom_, I know. I know."

"What else happened?"

"You're not gonna believe me," she said, "but – get this – a guy in a _horse mask_ broke into my apartment and, uh…" She rubbed the back of her neck. "…Beat the crap outta me. Kinda literally, too."

Sara's eyes widened. "Horse mask?"

"Yeah, sounds wild, I know, but you shoulda seen the guy, he was _huge_! Bigger than me, even."

"I pulled over a guy in a horse mask yesterday," she said, her voice low.

"Huh. Small world. Guess he didn't beat the crap out of you, though?"

"He got away."

"This is what my tax dollars are going towards?" Beatrice noticed the troubled look on Sara's face and held up her hands. "That was a joke. I was joking."

Sara's distant expression quickly shifted to a smirk as she exhaled through her nose. "Bea, we both know you don't pay your taxes."

"Hey, now. I'm _nothing_ if not an upstanding citizen," she said, crossing her arms. She leaned in close and lifted an eyebrow. "You're not workin' with the IRS, are ya?" she added quietly.

She could smell the blend of bubblegum flavoring, ash and vomit on the older woman's breath. She tried her very hardest not to make a face. "No."

"Good." Beatrice took a final drag from the nub of a cigarette pinched between her fingers before dropping it into the pinkish bottle. She offered it to Sara, who also deposited her cigarette butt, and set it down on the curb. Lacing her fingers between her knees, she stared into the curtain-drawn windows of the apartment complex across the street. "So, why are you here, then?"

Sara dug into her jacket pocket. "I wanted to give you this." Taking Beatrice's hand, she stared into the older woman's veiny green eyes as she firmly pressed something small into her calloused palm.

Beatrice opened her fingers and looked down. Sitting there was a black lump wrapped in plastic. She glanced up at Sara. "Where did you-"

"I know these streets like the back of my hand. I can get anything, anywhere."

"Impressive." She rolled the plastic bundle in her fingers. "I appreciate it, but this is only half a gram. This ain't enough for me to-"

"I'm not helping you get high," Sara said. "I'm helping you come down."

A light grumble rose up in Beatrice's throat. "Ah, there's always a catch."

Sara stood, and Beatrice sat in her shadow as the sun beamed down around her head. "Come by our place when you need more. But make it last."

Beatrice cradled the black tar in her palms, cupping her hands around it and holding it tight. "Thank you," she said after a while as she looked up. But all she saw was the other woman's back shrinking away down the sidewalk.

* * *

"…If you had just taken care of it the first time like I asked you to, we wouldn't be in this mess."

The pendulum on the old clock over the fireplace swung steadily as it ticked. Adelaide scratched her nails into the end table and held the receiver tight in her clawed grip.

"No, no, don't you dare try and pretend you're not part of this! We paid you for a job you didn't finish, and now that you have the tools at your disposal, you want to back out?" She stared out through the crack in the curtains to the dead, sundrenched front lawn and sighed. "I _know_ I already sent someone else to do it, but I don't know where he is! If he finished the job, I would've heard from him by now…"

She rubbed her brow as the man on the other end spoke, wanting nothing more than to box his ears.

"Now listen to me, Enoch. I need the poison oak cleared out of this yard, and I need it done with a quickness. My niece has been playing dangerously close to it lately, and I would just _hate_ to see her get hurt. Think of the children, Enoch. Please." She paused.

The line was silent.

Adelaide's frown deepened. "If not the children, then think of your flock. She- the, ahem, _poison oak _already took three of your sheep. Where's your righteous indignation, Enoch? I know the angels would smile upon you if you avenged them."

Silence. Then, a grumble. _"If you have any idea where I'm supposed to find her, then let me know."_

Adelaide smiled. "I most certainly will." Just as she set the phone down, the front door opened. "Ah, Lorna, you're one of the two people I was hoping to see."

The girl shut the door behind her. "Who's the other one?"

"Fred," Adelaide said through clenched teeth, propping her jaw against her knuckles. "I haven't seen or heard from him since Monday night. You wouldn't happen to know what happened to him, would you?" Through squinted eyes, she sent her a pointed look.

"Ah, n-no, I haven't got a clue," Lorna said, stepping over to the loveseat and sitting down.

"That's a shame." The old woman reached into the carton sitting by the phone, pulling out the last cigarette and placing it between her lips. She looked up to see Lorna's arm already extended, the flame of her lighter at the ready. Adelaide leaned forward and the tobacco crackled as it ignited. She sat back and took a drag. "Mr. Edelwood's already upset with me over botching this hit the first time. Now one of his best men is MIA, and we can only assume Lynch is still alive. He's going to throw a conniption fit."

"It's not like he can really do anything about it right now."

"Please, Lorna, now isn't the time for jokes." She tapped the end of her cigarette into the ashtray, covering up a little blue flower painted on the porcelain. "I just got off the phone with Enoch. He agreed to take this problem off our hands… Honestly, it'll take nothing short of an act of God to kill her at this point. He just needs her address."

A beam of dust flittered around Lorna's head, illuminated by the window to her back. "An act of God," she repeated, her lips numb as she slowly slumped back into the cushions.

There was a heavy thump on the door and a slam as it dented into the wall a second later. Adelaide and Lorna both looked up to see a black cowboy boot sticking through the doorway. A tall man in a wifebeater and a leather horse mask stepped inside. He raised his fists, the sunlight glinting off his brass knuckles as he clenched his fingers around the zip ties and ball gag in his grip.

* * *

The cool black leather slid from Beatrice's bicep as she removed the tourniquet and slipped the belt through the loops in her jeans. Tossing the needle into the sink, she rolled down the sleeves of the pale blue shirt she borrowed from the old dress uniform stashed under her bed. She gave herself a quick look in the mirror, running her fingers through her scalp and plucking out some of the more noticeable gray hairs. The light thumping of her polished boots against the tile floor echoed through the bathroom as she turned out the light.

After a short walk out into the cool evening air and down the block, she found herself standing before a walkway leading to the open doors of a small church. White chips of paint crackled off of the weathered boards of the walls. The congregation members approaching up the sidewalk gave her dirty looks as they stepped around her and filed inside. A large man in a tweed coat, who Beatrice could only assume was the pastor, held the door open and greeted his people.

She took the flier from her pocket and unfolded it. According to the crooked letter board sign in front, this was definitely the right place. She peered over the heads of the people, craning her neck to peer inside the church. But there was no sign of Lorna.

She felt someone small bump into her side and gasped with a smile. "Oh, hey!" Looking down, she saw a young girl with brown hair and a black sweater standing there. "Oh."

"I- I'm sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going," the girl stammered, quickly heading for the doors. The pastor smiled warmly at her, patting her shoulder and saying a few words as she entered. He looked out to the street and the smile dropped from his round face as he locked eyes with the tall redhead. Glancing over his shoulder, he stepped outside, easing the door shut behind him. He stepped down the walkway in his worn brown leather shoes, giving a slight half-wave and lacing his fat fingers over his protruding stomach.

"Uh, hello, I don't think we've met," he said.

"Beatrice," she said, offering her hand. The reverend stared at it. She lowered it back to her side.

"Wh- what…" He cleared his throat. "What brings you here?"

"I was invited."

"Who invited you?"

She cocked her brow. "Girl named Lorna. I haven't seen her around, though." She shifted her weight and crossed her arms. "Do you interrogate all your attendees like this?"

"Ah, of course, Lorna. Sweet young girl. Must be running a little late," he said, running his fingers through his beard. He extended his hand. "I apologize for my standoffishness. We don't see new faces too often around here. I'm Reverend Enoch. Welcome."

Beatrice shook it. "I guess your fliers must not be working."

He chuckled, his eyes blank and open too wide, his smile strained. "Right." The handshake continued for an uncomfortable amount of time before the reverend withdrew. "Why don't you come inside?" he said, looking over his shoulder as he turned and stepped slowly up to the entrance of the church, placing his palm against the door and pushing it open a crack.

Beatrice dug her hands in her pockets and looked around the street before shrugging her shoulders and following him inside.

* * *

"…In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit… Amen."

For a moment, she saw herself as a girl, golden sunbeams shining down on her green face as she sat crammed into a pew with her family, too busy punching one of her brothers in the arm or bickering with a sister to focus on the sermon. But here she was now, ill-fitting and blue, isolated at the back of the church, listening to the reverend's words only to take her mind off of her loneliness. She looked out the window at the darkened sky, rubbing her thumb over the back of her hand. "Amen," she said, her voice low.

The reverend blessed his congregation and bid them goodnight. As he watched the crowd disperse, his eyes drifted to the back row. Beatrice met his gaze and furrowed her brow, sidestepping out of the pew and turning to the exit.

Enoch felt sweat beading up on his bald head. He stepped down from the stage and jogged through the aisle, placing his hand firmly on Beatrice's shoulder just as she began to pull open the door. "Beatrice," he said, his voice smoky and honey-thick, his fingers curling slightly. "I believe we got off on the wrong foot earlier. Would you mind meeting me in my office for a chat? I'd like to get to know you a little better."

"The service was nice, Reverend, but I wanna get home before it gets too late. I can't see too good in the dark."

The edges of his grinning lips started to quiver. His mouth was getting dry. "I can give you a ride afterword."

Beatrice looked out to the dark street. The cold air stung the wound on her cheek and numbed her knuckles. She stared until she saw the figure of the horseman lingering in the shadows, and when she blinked he was gone. She let go of the door.

* * *

Beatrice sat down in the rickety wooden chair as Enoch stepped into the tiny office and shut the door behind him. Stepping around the heavy desk in the middle of the room, he glanced over to the redhead. "Do you smoke?" he asked as he eased himself into his leather chair.

She crossed her arms and leaned back. "A little."

Enoch slid open the desk drawer, taking out the cigar box and setting it down between them. He laced his fingers in front of him. "Go ahead."

She gave him a questioning look. He took off the lid.

"I'm not one for vices," he said, removing a cigar, "but I find that tobacco is one of the Lord's finest crops." He held it upright between his fingers, admiring it for a moment before offering it to the woman across the desk.

Beatrice took the cigar. "Thank you, Reverend."

"No problem," he said, slipping the lighter from his breast pocket. "I think everyone ought to enjoy the Lord's blessings at least once in their life," he said, his eyes lidded and his lips pressed as he passed her the lighter.

She placed the cigar in her mouth and moved to light it before pausing, lowering the lighter and staring at the shiny brass in her palm. "This is a pretty engraving," she said. "Is it custom?"

He glanced down at the image of the cat hunting in a field. "Ah yes," he said, propping up his chin with his knuckles, "an old friend of mine did that for me a long time ago. I engraved the other side myself."

Beatrice flipped over the lighter. Psalm 23:4 glowed up at her, burning into her eyes like the desert sun. She closed her eyes and great mountains rose up on all sides to block out the light. As she stood in their shadow, the blood from her boots stained the sands, and tongues slithered up from rows of needle-sharp teeth to lap it away. She brought the lighter to the end of her cigar, hearing the snapping of hollow bones as she flicked the flint wheel.

"Nice craftsmanship," she said, puffing on the cigar and handing the lighter back to the reverend. Her lungs were filled with sweet, earthy smoke.

"Thank you," he said, pushing the ashtray across the desk. He rubbed his thumb over the cool metal of the lighter and settled back into his seat. "Are you saved, Beatrice?"

"I… I dunno. I haven't been to church in years."

"Lorna must care a good deal about you, if she invited you here. The state of one's soul isn't something to be taken lightly."

"Somehow I don't feel like she's the churchgoing type," she said, tapping her ashes into the dish.

"On the contrary," he said, leaning forward and lacing his fingers, "she never misses a service for anything. In fact, it's unusual that she didn't show up tonight."

Beatrice's brow creased. "Oh… Really?"

"Mm. I don't mean to cut our talk short, but maybe I should check up on her…"

"Uh, yeah, yeah, you should do that. We can talk some other time."

"Yes, some other time." Enoch stood from his chair and stepped around his desk. "Come to think of it, it seems like you two are close," he said, staring down at the woman. "How about I bring you along, and I can drop you off at home afterword?"

"…Yeah, that's fine," she said, gripping the back of the chair and pushing herself to her feet. She took a long drag of her cigar and set it down in the ashtray.

"My car is around back, I'll be there in a moment." Beatrice nodded, and Enoch watched as she left the room. He walked back around his desk and opened a drawer. Reaching in, he pulled out a small, shiny pistol and tucked it inside his suit jacket. He took a cigar from the box for himself before walking out of the office and shutting the door behind him.

* * *

A soft country gospel song played on the radio as the old Chevy farm truck rolled down the road. Enoch stared ahead, his neck rigid and his large hands gripped tight on the steering wheel. Beatrice stared out the window, running her tongue over her teeth to taste the lingering flavor of the cigar.

The truck slowed down and Enoch squinted his eyes. There was a black Mustang parked on the street in front of Adelaide's house, with one tire over the curb. He turned his head to see warm light shining through the open doorway. He pulled the truck over and put it in park.

Beatrice leaned forward to see. "What the hell..?"

"Something isn't right," Enoch said, unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the door. Beatrice followed suit, and the two walked together across the front lawn. Enoch reached into his jacket and rested his hand on the pistol. Beatrice rolled up her sleeves and wrapped her fingers around the switchblade in her pocket. The sounds of shouting grew louder as they approached.

The redhead stepped inside, the reverend close behind her. Their eyes widened at the scene laid out before them. The fine antique coffee table and couch were overturned, and the horse man stood in the middle of the room kicking an old woman bound on the floor. Lorna struggled against the zip ties bruising her wrists and ankles, mascara running down her face as she sobbed around the gag in her mouth.

"The Beast wants me dead, doesn't he?!" He kicked the old woman in the face. "What have I ever done to you?" He kicked her in the chest and a bloody tooth dripped out of her mouth as she wheezed. "This was all just a trick to get me killed," he said, pacing around her body, "but I ain't playin' your games anymore!"

Fred held his head in his hands, his hard shoulders drooping as he heaved. From across the room, he heard a switchblade flip open. He looked up and froze. "You…" His eyes drifted past the redhead to the man behind her. _"You!"_ he roared, pointing his finger. "You're in on this too?!"

Enoch swallowed hard and tightened his grip on the pistol, waving his free hand. "Hold on, now, this must all be a big misunderstanding-"

The black cowboy boots pounded across the floor as Fred sprinted towards them. He reared back, a brass knuckle gleaming in the lamplight, and Enoch pulled the pistol from his jacket. His fist narrowly whooshed past Beatrice's head as she shifted to the side, grabbing him by the shoulder and plunging the knife in his guts. Groaning, he slumped against Beatrice before she shoved him back, dropping him to his knees. She yanked the mask off and tossed it aside.

With wide eyes, Enoch stared down at the bleeding man, his face long and his tousled brown hair stuck to his forehead by sweat. "Frederick..?" he asked, his voice soft.

From where he knelt on the floor, Fred saw a brilliant halo of golden light shining around Beatrice's head, her red hair aflame, her face a shadow. She was neither male nor female; she was divine animalism incarnate, she was the disemboweler of the universe. His eyes glassed over in awe of the God-sent angel of the Earth, come to bring him home and reunite him with his-

She grabbed his head and rammed it into her knee. He fell to the side, hitting the floor with a dull thump, unmoving. "Stand back, Reverend," Beatrice said, flipping the knife in her hand, "I'm gonna gut this fool like a fish." She heard the click of a pistol slide behind her.

She turned slowly to see the barrel of a gun pointed at her head. The girl in the chair started to thrash and scream through the gag, and the old woman on the floor watched silently through a crack in her swollen eye, her head lying in a pool of blood.

The knife slipped from Beatrice's fingers as she held up her hands. "Put the gun down, Reverend."

Enoch's hands shook, tears brimming behind his glasses. "You've killed too many members of my flock," he said, choked up.

"W-what? What are you talking about?"

Enoch pressed a hand over his mouth and glanced over at the two tortured women, a pained expression on his face. He looked back at Beatrice, her brow creased with helplessness. Slowly, decisively, he pointed the gun at Adelaide and pulled the trigger. The room went silent as smoke drifted from the barrel and blood trickled from the hole in Adelaide's forehead.

The reverend cleared his throat. "I think we're all in agreement," he said, slipping the pistol back under his lapel, "that the police will not be involved in this little situation in any way. Excuse me." He turned and walked out the door.

Beatrice numbly watched him go into the night. She looked over the carnage, her gaze rising from the bodies on the floor to meet Lorna's tear-stained eyes. "Oh my God," she said, snapped out of her daze. Grabbing the knife from the floor, she rushed to the loveseat, kneeling to cut the bindings from her ankles and wrists. "It's okay, it's okay," she said, unfastening the gag with her quivering fingers and throwing it away. Lorna immediately jumped forward, throwing her slender arms around Beatrice and holding her tight, burying her wet eyes in her shoulder. Beatrice gently rubbed her hand over the girl's back, feeling the bumps of her spine beneath her palm. "You're safe now, it's okay."

Beatrice placed her arm around Lorna's shoulder, easing her off of the loveseat and walking her towards the door. Stopping by Fred's body, Beatrice nudged him with the toe of her boot. She bent down to fish around in his pocket and pulled out the keys to his car. The two walked out onto the front porch to see Enoch standing on the lawn with a rusted metal gas can under his arm. "Both of you, meet me after the service on Sunday," he said, "or we're all going to be up a creek." Looking straight ahead, he stepped around them and entered the house.

Lorna placed her hand in the middle of Beatrice's chest, craning her neck to watch him. Beatrice took her chin in her fingers and turned her head. "Come on, let's get outta here before we get barbecued." She knelt to scoop up Lorna's legs and carried her to the Mustang. Opening the door, she set her down in the passenger seat before walking around and getting in.

Enoch trailed the gasoline out through the front door, looking over his shoulder to see the Mustang backing off the curb and driving away. He poured the can down the steps, leading the trail out to the middle of the yard. Taking the cigar from his pocket, he lit it, staring into the warm lamplight glow pouring out from the doorway as he smoked. He closed his eyes, took one last drag, and dropped the cigar to the dry grass as he walked to his truck. The trail ignited, and as he drove away, he could see the house going up in flames in the rearview mirror. A silhouette of a man emerged from the thick black smoke, and he stood in the embers of the grass with the blazing orange inferno to his back. Enoch's eyes widened. He pressed down a little harder on the gas pedal and sped down the street.

* * *

That night, beneath the soft, tangled white sheets, Lorna slept in Beatrice's arms.


End file.
